LIBRARY    ' 


Of 
CAilFOftNIA 


REG  IN  A, 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


ELIZA   CRUGER. 


As  some  far-flowing  river  glidcth  free 
With  ceaseless  motion  to  the  sounding  sea, 
While  thousand  lesser  streams  their  tribute  pay, 
Swelling  the  volume  of  that  mighty  wave; 
So  move,  O  Song,  upon  thy  devious  way, 
Till  thoo,  like  all  things  earthly,  endest  ia  the  gray 


NEW    YORK: 

p,    ^.    j^ARLETON, 

LONDON:  S.  LOW,  SON,  &  CO. 
amcccLxviu. 


UAIi  LIB. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1868,  by 
G.    W.    CARLETON, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  of 
New  York. 


CIS? 

T 


PAOB 

REGINA 7 

THE  "PACIFIC"  LOST  AT  SEA 120 

"CHRISTE  ELEISON" 121 

"COMING  HOME  TO  DIE" 122 

A  PRAYER  ANSWERED 123 

WINONA 124 

"PRIEZ  POUR  LES  MALHEUREUX" 127 

"CONSUMPTION" 128 

THE  OLD  YEAR  AND  THE  NEW 130 

A  LITTLE  WHILE 131 

"THERE  WENT  OUT  A  SOWER  TO  Sow."     Mark  iv.  3       .         .132 

MY  PICTURE  GALLERY 133 

"  YOUTH  EVER  LOVES  TO  DREAM."     Bulwer    .         .        .         .  137 

SORROW 138 

A  REVERIE 139 

"GIVE  THOU  NO  TEARS  TO  ME" 141 

AN  INCIDENT  .........  141 

SONG 143 

UNDER  THE  SEA 144 

A  PEBBLE        .........  143 


MAUD 

1857 

H.  B.  H. 

THOUGHTS 


148 
150 
153 
154 


"ALONE" 159 

"BROKEN  HEARTS" 159 

SPUING ICO 

WHITE  VIOLETS 1^2 

A  BROKEN  DREAM 163 

3 

499 


1V  CONTENTS. 

A  PICTURE  FOR  MY  GALLERY 164 

LINES  FOR  Music [ 

"DAY  OF  SMALL  THINGS" 165 

"LET  THE  KING'S  JUSTICE  PASS" IG(> 

CAPTIVE  AND  MONK *6' 

SOMETHING  ABOUT  LOVE 

A  TORN  LEAF m 

BOOKS 172 

THE  YEARS _ 

A  PRAYER 17a 

1858 II 

"IT  IS  NOT  LONG  TILL  MORNING " I'8 

THE  FLOWER  AND  DREAM 

"MAKE   NO   LONG   TARRYING,   0   MY   GOD  !  "      Psalm  xl.  21        .       181 

I  Q"l 

FOREBODINGS   

A  PICTURE  FOR  MY  GALLERY • 

TRUST! 

"Snow  ME  THY  WAY,  0  LORD!" I84 

AY!" 185 

ToS 187 

DAY-DREAMS •         •  ; 

"  IN  CCELO  QUIES  " ; 

THE  OLDEN  TIME 

N    F    M  — "  YOUNG,  LOVING,  AND  BELOVED"      .        .        .  191 

"WAIT!" •       192 

"SAY  AND  SEAL" 193 

CHANGES *9^ 

"NOTHING" ; 

A  PICTURE  FOR  MY  GALLERY 196 

THANKSGIVING,  1861 197 

"KILLED  IN  BATTLE" 198 

LUISA 199 

"THE  LEAVES  ARE  BEGINNING  TO  FALL"       ....  201 

ANNIE 202 

" SWEET  DREAMS!" 203 


WISHES 


203 


(THE  NIGHT  is  FAR  SPENT  ;   THE  DAY  is  AT  HAND      .        .  204 

"NELLA" 205 

"COBWEBS" 206 

A  THANKSGIVING 207 

To  F.  M.  S 208 

"HEIMWEH" 208 


CONTENTS.  V 

AT  THE  CHAPEL  SCHOOL 209 

HOW   DlETH   THE   DAY? 211 

THE  FOREST  GRAVE 211 

A  DIRGE          .         .         .         .         .        ...         .         .         .213 

A  NATION'S  PRAYER 214 

MY  HOME 216 

A  THOUGHT 216 

"OuT  IN  THE  BITTER  COLD!" 217 

"BOLD  IN  YOUTH"          •        ••.»...  217 

UNDER  THE  SNOW 218 

IONE 220 

LITTLE  BY  LITTLE 220 

KYRIAC 222 

OUR  LITTLE  BROTHER      .         .        .         .         .        .        .        .224 

ALONE 224 

WEARY .        .225 

"THE  LAST  GREETING" 226 

UNTOLD  LOVE           .........  227 

A  CHILD'S  SORROW 228 

POET  AND  REAPER          .         . 228 

"!T  is  NOUGHT" 229 

GRAVES 230 

"WOMEN  ARE  SUCH  HYPOCRITES!" 230 

HYMN 231 

CHRISTE  ELEISON     .        .        .         .        .         .         .         .         .232 

"I   GO   THE   WAY   OF   ALL   THE   EARTH" 232 

"AT  EVENTIDE  IT  SHALL  BE  LIGHT"      .         .         .         .         .  234 

"LET  NOT  THE  SUN  GO  DOWN  UPON  YOUR  WRATH"        .        .  234 

"WEARY" 236 

"REST" 236 

"REMEMBER  THY  CREATOR  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  THY  YOUTH"     .  237 

"TIRED!" 238 

"THE  CROWN-SEEKERS" 238 

CROSS  AND  CROWN 239 

"GOOD  GRACIOUS!"  —  L.  C.  G 240 

"THE  NIGHT  is  FAR  SPENT,  THE  DAY  is  AT  HAND." 

Romans,  xiii.  12  241 

".FADING" (  242 

THE  COMING  OF  THE  SPRING ,  243 

THE  DYING  MISSIONARY ,  244 

THE  DAYS  THAT  WERE 246 

"LovE  THAT  WAITETH" 247 


VI  CONTENTS. 

"NOTHING!" 249 

"KEPT  THEM  IN  HER  HEART" 250 

"THE  QUIET  LIFE" 251 

A  HOPE 252 

THE  BLUEBIRD 254 

"  BE  NOT  WEARY."     2  Thessalonians  iii.  13     .         .         .         .255 

THE  TRESS  OF  HAIR 257 

SHADOWS ' 2^8 

"PARTED" 258 

"BARBARA" 259 

"ONCE  THERE  LIVED  A  KING  IN  THULE"       ....  260 

"Too  LATE" 261 

JUNE 262 

"SPERO  MELIORA" 262 

"JACOB  MOOR,  OB.  2o  JUNE,  1758,  JET.  44"        .         .        .  265 

A  DREAM  OF  YOUTH,  AND  THE  END  THEREOF         .         .         .  266 

WHITHER? 270 

"  THE  WIND  BLOWETH  WHERE  IT  LISTETH,"  ETC.    St.  John  iii.  8  272 

"To  BE,  OR  NOT  TO  BE!" 282 

"Up  IN  THE  MORNING  EARLY" 283 

" ASHES  TO  ASHES,  DUST  TO  DUST" 284 

A  FANCY 285 

THE  LADY  ANNE 287 

ON  THE  KIVER 328 

OLIVE   AND   VIOLET 329 

A  VISION  OF  THE  NIGHT         .        .        .        .        .        •        •  358 

LILLIE 358 

To  S.  P.  H 360 

"FOR   THAT   SHE   SLEEPETH"     . 362 

ROSES  KED   AND   WHITE 363 


REG  I  NA. 


THE  days  had  come  when  time  should  be  no  more  : 
And  Earth,  pale  Empress,  saw  her  crumbling  throne 
Tottering  on  the  dark  and  lurid  verge 
Of  fell  Destruction's  fearful  precipice. 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars  were  blotted  from  the  sky; 
And  darkness  visible  was  over  all 
A  dim  and  ghastly  shroud.     All  sounds  were  hushed. 
All  living  things,  save  one,  had  vanished 
In  that  dark  night  of  Death.     One  only  thought 
Rose  dominant  o'er  a  racked  and  dying  world. 

'Twas  the  last  day  of  Earth,  —  upon  whose  breast 
The  dead  lay  heavy ;  but  not  yet  had  come 
The  hour  that  lit  the  fatal  funeral  pyre ; 
For  Life  yet  lingered  where  Death's  steed  had  passed, 
And  left  the  earth  a  vast  uncharnelled  grave. 
One  only,  fearless  and  confiding,  braved 
The  universal  doom  ;  —  one,  only,  met 
The  pale  Steed  and  its  Rider,  dying  not ;  — 
One  only  passion  mocked  Destruction's  art. 
'Twas  Love,  the  ever  trustful  and  the  true,  — 
The  star  that  leads  to  Heaven ! 

Amid  the  dead, 

Who  peopled  all  that  mighty  sepulchre, 
A  pallid  woman  sat,  watching  above 
A  soulless  form  of  clay  that  lay  beside. 
She  heeded  not  the  darkness  that  had  made 
All  Earth  a  Silence  and  a  Dread ;  —  saw  nought 
Beyond  the  narrow  circle  where  she  sat. 
Her  all  of  life  was  there ! 

A  ray  of  light 

Streamed  sudden  from  on  high ;  marking  the  spot 
Where  that  pale  woman  sat,  and  watched,  and  prayed; 
Borne  downwards  on  the  ray,  a  stately  shape, 
A  winged  angel  came,  and  lightly  stood 

7 


8  REGINA. 

Beside  the  watcher's  form ;  -with  keen  regard 

Eying  the  sunken  cheek  and  wasted  brow. 

There  was  an  earnest  questioning  in  his  gaze, 

That  seemed  to  say,  "  Why  lingerest  thou  here, 

Amid  the  dead  the  only  living  thing?  " 

"Because  I  love,"  came  solemnly  and  slow 

From  the  pale  watcher's  lips.  —  "  Thou  lovest,  then, 

And  what  ?  "  —  "  Look  there  !  it  lieth  at  thy  feet !  "  — 

"  The  dead?  "  —  "  Thou  sayest  it,  and  wherefore  not? 

'Tis  all  that  is  left  me  now.     Ay,  all !  all ! 

And  even  that  will  pass  away,  ere  long, 

And  meet  mine  eyes  no  more  !     And  then  —  and  then  - 

I,  too,  may  fold  my  weary  hands  and  die."  — 

"  It  needs  not  wait  till  then,"  the  angel  said. 

"  Look  round,  O  loving  one,  upon  thy  Earth. 

See  thou  that  nations  have  gone  down  to  dust  — 

That  War,  and  Plague,  and  Famine  have  held  rule, 

And  with  their  thousand  pangs  dispeopled  Earth. 

The  lamps  that  lighted  worlds  have  all  died  out ; 

And  in  this  voiceless  darkness  feel  thy  doom  !  "  — 

"  I  hear  thee,  and  resign  me.     Yet,  once  more, 

Could  I  but  pour  upon  the  winged  winds 

The  record  of  my  life  !  "  —  "  Thou  hast  thy  wish,"  — 

Outspoke  the  pitying  angel,  and  he  said 

"  Earth's  hours  are  swiftly  flying;  but  their  tale 

Is  not  yet  told ;  so,  watcher,  tell  thou  thine."  — 


There  was  a  silent  valley,  where  the  sun 
Was  wont  to  linger ;  on  its  pleasant  haunts 
And  joyous-flowing  streams,  pouring  the  light 
That  made  them  beautiful !     There  the  flowers  grew 
Hemming  earth's  robe  of  ever-living  green 
With  rainbow-spangles,  and  a  wealth  of  hues 
That  mocked  the  flashings  of  an  autumn-eve. 
There  rose  the  fountains  from  the  golden  sands 
To  fling  their  cooing  spray-showers  on  the  grass 
That  grew  so  green  beside.     The  slender  blades 
Loved  well  the  diamond  drops  that  crowned  them. 
And  oh!  the  sunny,  the  rejoicing  river, 
Whose  waves  sped  on  so  merrily  in  their  flow, 
Singing  a  glad  song  ever;  while  my  heart 
Kept  measure  to  its  chiming  melody ; 
And  marvelled  not  why  earth,  and  stream,  and  air, 


REGINA. 

Sang  but  one  song,  and  changed  not  the  strain ! 
Who  hath  not  heard  the  chorus  to  that  song? 
When  from  their  leafy  covert  carol  forth 
The  forest-minstrels,  warbling  out  their  glee 
In  changeful  music;  while,  from  every  field, 
Rings  out  the  gay  Cicada's  chirping  shout; 
And  each  fair  blossom,  from  its  leafy  cup, 
Sends  up  a  softened  peal  of  bells,  that  seem 
To  mortal  ears  the  sighing  breath  of  flowers. 
Eor,  all  unconscious  still  our  earth-born  race, 
That  ever,  from  the  fairy  throats  of  flowers, 
There  goeth  up  a  hymn  of  daily  praise 
Unto  the  Life-Giver,  ceasing  not, 
But  flowing  forth  forever,  and  the  same ! 

I  was  a  child  of  nature.     Never  yet 
Upon  my  heart  had  breathed  the  blasting  wind 
That  bears  the  deadly  coldness  of  the  world, 
The  blasting  wind,  Sirocco,  to  man's  soul. 
And  in  this  pleasant  valley,  I  had  learnt 
To  read  the  language  of  the  stars  and  flowers. 
And  full  of  love,  and  all  life's  highest  thoughts 
Were  the  pure  lessons  that  my  teachers  taught. 
And  well  I  learned  them,  graving  on  my  heart 
Each  simple  precept,  and  each  holy  law; 
Till  all  mine  acts  had  but  one  guiding  rule, 
And  that  was  traced  by  a  mighty  Hand 
Whose  writing  erreth  not !     And  they  who  taught 
My  spirit  such  deep  lore  were  only  two,  — 
My  father  and  my  mother.     They  are  gone ; 
And  years  have  held  their  long  and  trying  sway 
Since  they  departed  from  me ;  yet  my  soul 
Bears  all  the  record  of  my  early  years ; 
No  thought  erased  —  no  holy  lesson  lost ! 

My  mother !  O  my  mother !  thou  who  wert 
Mine  earthly  angel  — look  thou  down,  and  smile 
Upon  thy  dying  child ;  for  she  hath  kept 
The  lofty  hopes  thou  gavest  her,  allundimmed 
Through  bitter  struggles,  and  a  weigat  of  woe 
That  might  have  borne  an  angel  down  to  Earth ! 
O  true  heart  and  loving!     Earth  had  not 
Home  fitting  thee,  and  so  the  Holy  One 
("ailed  thee  to  share  a  blessed  rest  on  high ; 
And  thou  didst  turn,  resigned,  but  sadly  slow, 
From  husband  and  from  child :  with  meekest  bow, 
Laying  thy  fair  head  in  the  lap  of  Death, 
And  —  as  from  a  troubled  sleep  awaking 


10  REGINA. 

To  find  the  real  worse  than  fantasy  — 

We  woke  —  O  mother !  thou  hadst  gone  from  ns ; 

And  with  pale  cheeks,  and  tightly  clasped  hands, 

We  bore  thee  to  thy  rest ;  and  then  —  and  then  — 

Went  back  to  life  again.     A  changed  life, 

Since  thou,  the  loved  and  loving,  wert  not  there. 

And  time  crept  on.    My  father's  hair  grew  white 
Beneath  the  mournful  shadow  that  had  fallen 
Upon  our  lovely  valley ;  and  the  strength, 
The  stately  grace  of  manhood,  had  gone  by 
As  a  flower  flung  on  the  autumn  gale, 
Leaving  but  the  phantom  of  his  former  self 
To  mock  the  old  man's  eye.     But  little  cared 
Or  grieved  my  father  for  departed  strength. 
And  when  my  gaze  would  rest  all  sadly  on 
The  pallid  brow,  wan  cheek,  and  dulled  eye, 
Slow  tracing  there  the  tokens  of  decay ; 
His  earnest  voice  would  fall  upon  mine  ear, 
And  bid  me  "  mourn  not  o'er  his  fading  prime  ; 
For  dear  to  him  the  signs  that  told  of  death. 
A  signal  each  of  swift  deliverance  . 
From  earthly  bonds  of  clay ;  a  herald,  sent 
To  bear  him  onwards  to  that  happy  land 
Where  she,  who  had  gone  from  us,  waited  still 
To  greet  his  entrance  into  that  pure  rest 
Whence  grief  and  death  forever  banished  are." 

One  eve  —  it  left  its  record  on  my  heart  — 
The  breath  of  tempests  had  been  over  earth, 
But  ceased  their  strife  at  noon,  though  yet  the  wind 
Wailed  moaningly,  as  struggling  to  be  free ; 
And  in  the  darkened  east  the  storm-swept  clouds 
Hung  lowering,  like  a  pall ;  while  the  lightning's  glare 
Flashed  pale  and  lurid  o'er  the  heavy  shroud 
That  veiled  the  sky  beyond.    Far  in  the  west, 
Along  the  mountain's  distant  horizon, 
A  sickly  gleam  at  intervals  was  seen, 
As  though  the  shadow  of  the  parted  storm 
Yet  lingered  there.     The  flowers  —  I  only  knew 
Where  they  had  been  by  the  soiled  petals  lying 
In  the  defiling  dust.    The  storm  had  swept 
Too  surely  on  its  fearful  errand  for  the  Earth 
To  wear  its  jewels  still;  and  so  its  breast 
Lay  bare  and  open  to  the  spoiler's  touch. 
And  from  the  swollen  river  came  a  roar 
Of  senseless  terror  as  it  foamed  and  tossed 
Convulsive  in  its  dark  and  rock-strewn  bed. 


RE GIN  A.  11 

Save  for  the  restless  heaving  of  the  wave, 
Silence  had  held  terrific  revel  there. 

I  heeded  not  the  raving  of  the  storm, 
Nor  marked  its  progress.     I  was  a  watcher 
Beside  a  dying  father,  and  I  knew 
That,  ere  the  morrow  dawned,  my  work  of  love 
Would  all  be  ended,  and  myself  alone ! 
Through  that  loug,day  of  terror  and  of  storm 
Slumber  had  sealed  up  the  weary  lids 
Of  the  death-stricken;  and  the  gasping  breath 
Was  all  that  told  me  life  yet  lingered  there. 
So  the  long  day  went  by,' and  evening  came  : 
And  as  I  looked  upon  my  father's  face 
His  gaze  met  mine,  and  with  a  sudden  strength 
He  spoke  to  me.    I  hear  him  speaking  now. 

THE  FATHER. 

"  My  child  —  Regina  —  there  will  soon  be  light 
Upon  an  angel's  brow,  for  I  depart. 
Yet  ere  I  leave  thee,  mine  own  blessed  one, 
There  is  a  passing  tale  of  other  days 
That  thou  must  learn  from  me.    I  have  not  been 
Alway  a  dweller  in  this  mountain  vale. 
I  was  a  lowly  tenant  of  the  earth, 
And  in  my  careless  youth  but  little  recked 
Of  country  or  of  king.     Content  was  mine  : 
And  in  my  quiet  home,  true,  honest  hearts 
Smiled  ever  on  my  boyhood ;  and  my  rest 
Was  calm  and  dreamless.     Sorrow  came,  at  last, 
And  death  soon  followed,  till  my  happy  home 
Was  only  eloquent  of  the  silent  grave. 
And  then  the  quenchless  thirst  for  parted  peace 
Came  sudden  to  my  soul ;  and  so  I  left 
My  native  valley  for  the  stirring  strife 
Of  earth's  vast  cities.     Better  I  had  died 
E'en  in  mine  hour  of  lonely  sorrowing 
Than  lived  to  learn  the  falsehood  of  my  race. 

"  With  eager  pace,  and  fleet,  I  crossed  the  hills 
That  formed  the  boundary  of  my  native  vale ; 
And  ever,  while  my  steps  were  onward  bent, 
Slow  thought  retraced  the  record  of  the  Past ; 
And  all  the  fading  memories  of  youth 
Passed  freshly  by  me,  as  an  odor  borne 
On  winds  that  lately  swept  o'er  Araby. 
As  in  the  sliding  mirror,  forms  glide  by, 


12  RE  GIN  A. 

Casting  a  shadow  as  if  life  were  there, 
So,  o'er  the  mirror  of  my  soul's  rethought, 
Hose  up  the  home  of  childhood,  wearing  all 
The  magic  bloom  that  memory  giveth 
Unto  the  things  that  have  been,  and  are  now 
But  present  through  her  inightful  influence. 

"  I  pondered  o'er  the  past,  until  my  steps, 
So  hurried  late,  became  all  slow  and  sad, 
Its  spell  was  busy  with  my  heart  and  brain, 
Till  in  my  thought  I  was  once  more  a  child. 
Again  I  stood,  a  wild  and  joyous  boy, 
By  the  green  shore  of  the  rushing  river, 
Flinging  therein  full  many  a  round  stone ; 
And  ofttimes  numbering,  with  most  earnest  brow, 
The  little  circles  as  they  widened  there. 

"  Again  —  a  pale  and  dreaming  youth  —  I  lay 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  pine-trees  dark 
That  grew  around  our  dwelling ;  poring  o'er 
The  lore  of  vanished  ages,  —  weaving  aye 
High  dreams  and  noble  from  the  storied  page 
I  loved  so  well.    Our  lonely  home  had  been 
The  storehouse  of  all  knowledge ;  garnered  up, 
Through  the  long  lapse  of  by-gone  centuries, 
By  those  who  cradled  hope  for  future  years 
In  those  old  records  of  departed  time. 
These  precious  tomes  were  to  mine  untried  soul 
A  well-spring,  quenching  for  a  time  its  thirst. 
So,  from  these  musty  chronicles  I  learned 
The  strength  that  bears  all  suffering  and  is  still  — 
The  spell  that  crowneth  genius  with  its  fire  — 
The  lore  that  makes  men  great ! 

So  passed  my  youth. 

Then  came  the  darker  retrospect  of  death, 
And  I  looked  down  upon  the  valley  sods. 
Three  graves  were  lying  silent  at  my  feet, 
And  from  my  yearning  gaze  shut  out,  there  rest 
My  parents  and  my  sister.     The  first  had  laid 
Themselves  to  sleep  in  the  fulness  of  years 
Ail  ripened  for  the  grave ;  but  she,  —  mine  own 
And  only  sister,  —  she  had  withered  —  died  — 
Ere  life's  spring-time  was  over,  —  with  its  bloom 
Yet  fresh  upon  her  cheek.     She  was  so  fair ! 
A  gentle,  loving  thing  that  aye  would  creep 
The  closer  to  my  side  when  storms  were  near, 
As  though  my  presence  were  a  shield  from  harm, 


EEGINA.  13 

She  passed  away  so  silently  from  life, 

I  knew  not  she  had  left  me,  till  the  moon 

Flamed  out,  and  showed  the  marble  of  the  tomb 

Too  surely  frozen  on  her  Parian  brow. 

My  hold  on  earth  seemed  shattered  when  she  died ; 

And  yet  I've  run  a  long  and  changeful  course, 

Since  silence  settled  on  my  early  home. 

"  A  gush  of  song  —  clear,  joyous,  swelling  song  — 
From  the  sweet  warblers  of  the  wild  green  wood 
Broke  gladly  on  mine  ear,  and  called  my  thoughts 
From  their  sad  wanderings  to  the  present  back ; 
And  with  a  sudden  shiver  I  awoke 
From  mournful  memory's  tenacious  dream, 
And  turned  me,  as  man  ever  turns  at  times, 
To  our  kind  mother,  Nature,  for  relief. 
Fair  was  the  scene  that  lay  before  mine  eyes  ; 
Stretched  out  beneath,  in  wild  magnificence, 
Upland  and  lowland,  forest,  mead,  and  stream, 
Diversified  the  plain.     All  wore  the  garb 
Of  the  sweet  summer  time  —  so  brightly  green, 
So  richly  various.    Far  to  the  west 
The  sleeping  waters  of  a  mighty  sea 
Lay  bathed  in  golden  splendor, 'glassing  bright 
The  slanted  rays  of  the  uprisen  sun. 
There,  gliding  swiftly  o'er  the  heaving  tide, 
Sped  the  white  birds  of  ocean;  while  a  sound 
Of  sweet  and  far-off  music  filled  the  air; 
Soft  flowing  o'er  the  wave  unto  the  shore. 
The  smiling  summer  shore.    Around  me  frowned 
The  cold  and  iron  majesty  of  cliffs 
That  reared  a  stern  and  stately  front  to  heaven; 
While  close  beside  me  spread  a  sea  of  ice, 
The  slow,  yet  certain,  work  of  centuries. 
I,  only,  breathed  the  breath  of  human  life 
'Mid  those  white,  shadowy  cliffs,  where  evermore 
Silence  and  desolation  held  their  sway. 

"  I  turned  me  from  those  stillest  realms  of  ice 
Unto  the  plain  beneath,  where,  in  its  pride 
Of  stately  palaces  and  gardens  rare. 
Rose  up  a  mighty  city,  girdled  by 
A  ring  of  emerald.     I  marked  it  well, 
And  thought  within  myself  that  I  would  be 
A  dweller  in  its  walls.     So  from  the  lone 
And  cheerless  summit,  with  slow,  weary  pace, 
I  bent  my  steps  and  journeyed  thitherward. 


14  RE  GIN  A. 

"It  was  a  day  of  solemn  festival, 
And  the  great  city,  through  its  hundred  gates 
Poured  forth  its  thronging  myriads  to  the  plain 
Where,  lone,  majestic,  rose  a  temple  fair,  — 
The  lofty  Pantheon.     A  dome  of  gold,  — 
A  thousand  columns  the  vast  arch  upheld,  — 
Loomed,  high  and  central,  o'er  the  lesser  towers 
That  seemed  as  sentinels  a  watch  to  keep 
O'er  some  great  monarch's  slumber.     All  the  wealth, 
The  gathered  gems  of  twice  ten  thousand  years, 
Were  lavished  on  the  walls  and  arched  roof, 
Till  in  the  blaze  of  Day's  bright  burning  orb 
It  seemed  the  various  Iris  had  been  won 
From  its  high  place,  to  gleam  in  changeful  light 
On  the  vast  dome  and  its  attendant  towers. 

"  A  burst  of  song  —  a  sound  as  if  all  Earth 
Woke  the  deep  lay  —  swelled  sudden  on  mine  ear, 
As  with  mute  step,  and  scarcely  throbbing  heart, 
I  entered  with  the  crowd,  and  stood  beneath 
The  wide,  o'erarching  dome.     The  light  of  day 
Streamed  never  through  those  walls  of  clearest  glass, 
For  o'er  them  laid  were  golden  plates,  and  gems 
That  barred  the  rays  of  sun,  or  moon,  or  stars. 
The  vaulted  roof  was  tinted  like  the  sky 
When  stars  shine  brightest,  and  all  diamond-strewed. 
Till,  in  the  pale,  soft  light  of  shaded  lamps, 
It  seemed  the  arched  and  glittering  firmament. 
A  thousand  columns  stood  in  circle  round, 
A  thousand  altars  flamed  on  every  side 
And  waving  censers  filled  the  perfumed  air 
With  clouds  of  freshest  fragrance ;  and  the  while 
Soft  tones  of  music,  like  to  ocean  waves, 
Were  ever  floating  through  the  sounding  arch,  — 
A  never-resting  flow  of  melody. 
A  clear,  sweet  voice  rang  out  above  the  swell 
Of  loudest  music;  and  the  gathered  throng 
Of  worshippers  bowed  low  the  willing  knee, 
As  if  one  soul  had  animated  all. 
And  yet  not  all.     A  fair  and  fragile  girl 
Stood  lonely  in  the  midst,  — her  eyes  upraised, 
And  her  slight  fingers  clasped  o'er  her  breast, 
With  such  a  holy  calm  upon  her  brow, 
That  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  worshipped  her. 

"  Alone  she  stood !    Receding  from  her  side, 
As  from  a  thing  that  breatheth  pestilence, 
The  crowd  drew  back,  and,  with  cold  looks  askance, 


RE  GIN  A.  15 

And  a  strange  dread  quick  settling  on  each  brow, 

They  gazed  upon  her  as  on  one  accursed ; 

And,  from  the  altars  flaming  round  there  came 

A  deep,  stern  voice,  — '  Or  kneel,  or  bear  the  curse ! ' 

A  shudder  crept  o'er  all  that  living  mass ; 

But  she,  that  maiden  lovely,  trembled  not; 

And,  with  clear  tones  and  lute-like,  spake  aloud,  — 

'  I  kneel  not,  save  to  Gon! ' 

"  Dark  frowned  each  one 
Of  all  that  wore  the  priestly  mantle  there ; 
And  with  low,  muttering  tones,  and  eyes  that  glare 
Beneath  their  cowled  brows,  they  gathered  near 
The  chiefest  altar,  and  with  hissing  voice, 
Bade  that  fair  girl  draw  near;  and  then  they  spake 
Such  words  as  made  me  dream  the  old  time  back 
Of  torture  and  of  fire ! 

—  "  '  Thou  that  hast  sought 
Our  holy  temple  but  in  mockery ; 
Say,  whence  the  spell  that  giveth  thee  that  look 
Of  high  and  holy  calm  ?    And,  wherefore  thus 
Insult  the  Deity  in  his  own  abode  ? 
Nay,  answer  not!  for,  false  one,  on  thy  soul, 
We,  who  know  all  things,  see  the  signet  dark 
Of  him  who  ruleth  hell !     Ay,  thou  art  one 
Of  those  who  bear  them  purely,  holily, 
In  outer  seeming;  so  to  gather  souls 
From  mid  the  shelter  of  our  Mother  Church.* 
But  well  it  is  for  all  who  unto  her 
Are  servants  true,  that  those  who  live  like  thee, 
And  prowl  as  wolves  among  the  shepherd's  fold, 
Are  doomed  to  meet  discovery  and  death. 
For  still  the  church  is  armed  for  such  foes ; 
Her  arm  is  mighty,  and  outstretched  to  save,  — 
Her  eyes  far-seeing,  and  her  power  great, 
Omnipotent  and  ubiquitous  evermore! 
Yet  thou,  frail  child  of  earth,  hast  dared  to  set 
Thyself  in  opposition  to  her  will ; 
And  breathed  forth  heresy,  e'en  where  her  name 
Is  graven  on  yon  mimic  vault  of  heaven. 

*>,*,T^e  BU,tl1<T  !)eff,1laye  *?,  fore8<a11  any  impugning  of  her  orthodoxy  by  declaring 
that  the  self-styled  "church  "of  which  ttegina's  father  speaks,  is  only  another  name 
r  the  Babylon  of  the  Apocalypse;  and  is  not,  and  could  not  be,  "  the  Bride"  the 
Church  of  Christ.  In  these  days  of  many  creeds,  when  much  learning  seems  to  make 
men  mad;  when  all  manner  of  opinions  on  the  one  great  point  are  so  prevalent  it 
behooves  us  who  are  members  of  the  CHURCH,  to  beware,  lest  we  trench  unwittingly 
too  nearly  upon  the  strong  lines  of  demarcation  which  sever  the  doubtful  and  '"the" 
unbelieving  from  the  true  Christian,  therefore  if,  in  this  her  book,  any  opinions  scorn 
to  savor  of  other  than  Church  doctrine,  let  it  be  remembered  that  it  is  spoken  only  "in 
cnar-acter.  Further,  the  author  has  only  to  acknowledge  her  own  most  thorough 
belief  "in  Unum,  Sanctum,  Catholicum,  et  Apostolicum  Ecclesiam  "  together  with 
each  and  every  article  of  the  Xiceno  Creed ;  the  "  1<  ilioque  "  not  exccpted. 


16  RE  GIN  A. 

Yet,  yet,  in  pity  to  thy  tender  years 
And  seeming  innocence,  we  give  thee  space 
To  win  her  pardon  by  thy  penitence. 
So  speak,  while  yet  thou  may'st.'  — 

—  "  «  But  passing  brief, 
The  space  ye  grant  for  penitence,'  outspake 
The  maiden,  as  she  stood,  her  meek  hands  crossed 
Upon  her  heaving  bosom,  as  to  still 
The  ceaseless  throbbing  of  her  fevered  heart. 
'Yea,  brief  the  space,  but  it  sufflceth  me. 
What,  know  ye  not,  — ye  who  make  your  dwelling 
In  the  high  haunts  of  power,  and  bend  men's  souls 
Unto  your  bidding  with  remorseless  strength ; 
Making  a  sport  and  pastime  of  the  tears, 
And  broken  hearts,  and  lost  souls  of  your  race,  — 
What,  know  ye  not,  that  oft-times  in  this  earth 
There  comes  an  hour,  when  from  the  weary  yoke 
And  crushing  superstition  of  the  few, 
The  fettered  soul  awakes,  and  spurns  its  bonds, 
And,  like  a  lion  freed  from  hunter's  toils, 
Leaps  forth,  exulting  in  its  liberty? 
So  came  the  day-spring  rushing  on  my  soul ; 
And,  from  the  low,  and  dark,  and  crooked  way 
Ye  have  traced  out  for  earthly  things  to  tread, 
I  woke  to  tidings  of  a  higher  life, 
To  freedom  and  to  GOD!    Nay,  I  must  speak ! 
So  call  your  hirelings  back,  and  give  me  space. 
What !  did  ye  think  that  freedom  was  crushed  out, 
When  ye  made  slaves  of  all  the  noblest  gifts 
That  crown  the  human  race?     True,  ye  have  laid 
Dull  fetters  on  the  mind,  and  taught  the  brain 
To  be  your  bondsman,  and  to  work  your  will. 
And  well  have  they  obeyed  your  lessoning ! 
Look  forth  upon  our  Earth,  —  the  beautiful ! 
Its  plains  are  clothed  in  freshest  verdure  fair; 
Its  vales  are  strewed  with  various-tinted  flowers ; 
Its  streams  flow  on  rejoicing  to  the  sea; 
And  all  is  bright,  and  pure,  and  glorious,  — 
Instinct  with  life  and  truest  beauty. 
But  ye  have  made  the  pleasant  homes  of  earth 
A  poison  and  a  snare ;  have  flung  the  blight 
Of  cold  suspicion  on  each  loving  heart ; 
Till  every  household  hearth,  so  sacred  once, 
Is  now  a  dwelling  scarcely  fit  for  fiends ! 
Nay,  frown  not,  for  'tis  true !  ye  know  it  well. 
Gaze  o'er  the  earth.     Are  not  its  valleys  dyed 
With  the  red  stains  of  battle  and  of  strife  ? 


EEGINA.  17 

Flows  not  the  blood  of  those  whom  ye  have  slain, 

For  that  they  dared  to  break  your  hateful  yoke, 

Unto  the  gates  of  yon  all-seeing  heaven? 

A  testimony  true,  and  ceaseless  evermore, 

Crying  unto  the  Holy  One,  "  How  long?  " 

Lo !  Earth  calls  out  for  vengeance  on  the  wrongs 

That  for  ten  thousand  years  have  weighed  her  down, 

And  stained  her  patient  brow !    And  the  hour  comes ! 

Yea,  —borne  on  the  wings  of  all-subduing  fire,  — 

Pale  Pestilence  stalking  with  its  horrid  tread, 

As  grim  Avatar  of  the  coming  doom, 

And  Death,  the  pitiless,  sweeping  sternly  on, 

And  leaving  not  a  phantom  life  behind ;  — 

The  fated  hour  swift  draweth  near  its  birth, 

And  when  it  comes  —  as  come  it  shall,  and  soon 

In  fearful  darkness  heralding  your  doom  — 

Then  look  ye  to  your  power !     Its  end  is  nigh. 

Lo !  a  dark  tempest  sweepeth  over  earth ; 

And  Ruin  rusheth  forth  upon  the  wind ; 

And  after  cometh,  with  a  flaming  sword, 

The  Angel  of  Destruction.    Lo!  your  fanes, 

All  desecrate  with  blood,  are  tottering; 

And  from  your  shrines  the  idols  are  cast  down : 

And  in  their  place  sitteth  a  mocking  fiend 

With  bitter  jibe  triumphing  o'er  the  doom 

That  marks  ye  his  forever !     From  the  sky 

All  light  is  blotted  out,  and  o'er  the  world 

Horror  and  Darkness,  twin-born  of  the  night, 

Hold  dread  dominion.     On  your  guilty  souls 

The  shadow  of  the  doom  to  come  sits  darkly; 

The  voice  of  prayer  is  hushed ;  —  and,  'mid  the  crash 

Of  wild  collapsing  elements,  and  the  dim 

And  lurid  light  of  flames  that  slowly  fade, 

Deep  darkness  settles  on  the  universe, 

And  veils  the  vision  of  a  dying  world ! '  — 

"  She  ceased  —  and  for  a  moment  all  was  still. 
Men's  brows  looked  ghastly  in  the  torches'  glare, 
And  a  dim  dread  of  something  undefined 
Lay  frosted  on  each  heart ;  while  every  eye 
On  that  inspired  maid  was  riveted, 
As  though  each  thought  on  that  prophetic  brow, 
As  in  the  magic  glass  of  olden  days, 
To  read  their  final  and  determined  doom. 
And  she?  —  Within  her  dark  and  flashing  eyes 
There  shone  the  light  of  inspiration's  fire; 
While  on  her  brow,  peace,  like  an  angel,  shed 
Its  holy  influence. 
2 


18  RE  GIN  A. 

"Not  long  endured 

The  silence  and  the  fear.    With  ready  tact 
The  mitred  priests  held  out  the  sacred  signs 
Of  their  high  office,  and  with  deep,  stern  voice 
They  spake  the  maiden's  doom ;  with  words  of  death 
Veiling  their  secret  dread. 

—  "  «  Lo !  ye  have  heard 
From  her  own  lips  the  fearful  blasphemy 
Wearing  the  guise  of  prophecy ;  and  seen 
How  even  now  the  fallen  One  doth  strive 
To  lead  men's  souls  astray.     Our  holy  Church 
Is  watchful  o'er  her  flock ;  and  ever  seeks 
To  save  the  faithful  from  the  secret  snare 
That  leadeth  to  destruction.     Hear  her  doom ; 
And  in  your  happy  homes  think  of  the  soul 
That  goeth  to  its  death.     Apostate  child, 
And  lost  sheep  of  the  ilock!  — thou  that  hast  mocked 
The  gentle  teachings  of  our  Mother  Church, 
And  flung  aside  the  hand  outstretched  to  save, 
And  uttered  fearful  words  of  blasphemy ;  — 
Depart  from  us !     The  curse  is  laid  on  thee ! 
No  heart  may  speak  its  blessing  on  thy  path ; 
No  hand  come  nigh  in  greeting  unto  thine ; 
No  eye  look  kindly  on  thee,  and  no  voice 
Speak  aught  unto  thee  save  an  added  curse. 
Let  earth  refuse  thee  nourishment ;  the  sky 
Shed  down  no  sunny  influence  on  thy  way, 
And  ocean  bar  thee  e'en  from  sepulchre ! 
Go  forth  to  loneliness  and  the  desert  — 
The  thorny  pathway,  and  the  silent  sands  — 
Go  from  us  —  thou  art  doomed ! ' 

"  The  doom  was  said : 

And  instant  from  the  crowd  a  woman  came, 
With  hurried  pace,  yet  soft  and  silent  step. 
She  recked  not  of  kind  hands  that  would  have  stayed 
Her  onward  motion.    With  a  wailing  cry 
She  clasped  the  doomed  maiden  to  her  breast; 
And  'mid  the  awe-struck  stillness  of  the  throng 
These  words  were  heard.  '  My  mother,'  and  « My  child ! ' 

"  *  Forbear !  she  is  accurst ! '  —  with  thundering  voice 
Began  the  cold  and  heartless  priesthood, 
The  while  their  slaves  with  hands  irreverent 
Profaned  nature's  holiest  meeting; 
With  savage  strength,  unheeding  their  sad  plain, 
Severing  parent  and  child.     There  rang  a  cry  — 
A  wild,  passionate  cry  —  from  'mid  the  band 


RE  GIN  A.  1.9 

Of  careless  hirelings,  as  if  some  chord 
That  bindeth  life  to  life  were  rudely  struck, 
And  shivered  'neath  the  shock.     So  full  of  death, 
So  sudden-sounding,  and  so  sudden  still, 
Was  that  same  bitter  cry,  that  to  mine  ear 
It  seemed  the  death-shriek  of  a  broken  heart. 

"A  breath  of  fire  passed  swift  athwart  my  brow; 
A  strange,  deep  courage  filled  my  burning  heart ; 
And  with  extended  arm,  and  gesture  firm, 
Indignant  I  broke  forth  :  '  What !  are  ye  men, 
Yet  trample  thus  upon  a  mother's  love  ? 
Think  ye,  your  solemn  ban  and  curse  can  chill 
That  ceaseless  flow  of  love,  or  turn  its  stream, 
So  pure  and  sparkling,  into  bitterest  gall? 
As  soon  might  ye  essay  with  impious  hope 
And  fond  dream  of  success  to  win  from  night 
The  tiniest  jewel  in  her  starry  crown ! 
Yea;  stronger  than  the  chains  ye  forge  for  souls, 
Stronger  than  Death,  a  mother's  quenchless  love. 
Ye  have  proved  it  well ;  and  your  cold  hearts 
Have  seen  how  mightier  far  than  fear  it  is. 
It  hath  braved  all  tilings  but  to  look  again 
On  one  dear  face,  and  die  !    Ay,  die  !    Look  there ! 
Death  is  within  your  temple  walls,  and  ye  — 
Ay,  ye  —  have  called  him  there ! ' 

"And,  as  I  spoke, 

I  lifted  from  its  gentle  resting-place 
The  mother's  lifeless  form,  and  laid  it  down 
Beside  the  altar-stone ;  whence  the  pale  dead 
With  its  so  still  and  calm  rebuking  glance, 
Looked  upward  to  the  arched  and  massive  dome, 
As  if  it  sought  from  angel  lips  to  ask 
Beseechingly,  '  How  long  ? '  — 

"Deep  silence  fell 

O'er  all  that  countless  throng ;  and  they  were  still, 
For  Death  was  in  their  midst,  till  o'er  the  hush 
There  rose  a  voice  in  wailing  for  the  dead. 
'  My  mother !  O  my  mother !     Thou  art  gone ; 
And  thy  so  loving  heart  may  beat  no  more 
Eesponsive  unto  mine.    From  thy  dear  lips 
I  learned  the  earlier  lessenings  of  truth 
In  sweetest  teachings  given ;  and  now  —  and  now  — 
O  mother !  silence  is  upon  them  set, 
And  they  speak  not,  save  in  Heaven.     0  Death  ! 
Hadst  thou  but  called  me  too,  I  had  gone  down 
Smiling  to  the  dust;  for  from  thy  dwelling 
Short  is  the  way  that  leadcth  up  to  GOD; 


20  EEC  IN  A. 

And  I  should  now  be  there  with  thee  —  with  thee  — 
My  mother  —  O  my  mother ! '  — 

"  While  the  voice 

Of  her  low  wailing  fell  upon  mine  ear 
I  watched  the  faces  of  the  priesthood, 
And  only  read  in  their  so  cruel  mien 
The  maiden's  sealed  doom.     So,  when  she  rose 
From  her  dead  mother's  side,  I  took  her  hand, 
And,  in  slow,  solemn  tones,  I  breathed  a  vow,  — 
Earth's  holiest,  —  and,  turning  to  the  throng 
That  stood  around  the  altar,  uttered  it. 
'  Ye  have  sent  forth  from  the  known  haunts  of  men 
A  helpless  maiden ;  and,  in  mocking  doom,  — 
For  that  ye  shut  her  out,  as  one  accurst, 
From  human  love  and  human  sympathy,  — 
Have  made  her  life  more  bitter  far  than  death. 
Ye  have  spoken  her  doom ;  now,  speak  ye  mine ! 
For  know  that,  as  her  creed,  so  readeth  mine ; 
And,  before  GOD,  and  in  the  sight  of  men, 
I  call  her  wife.    Behold,  our  lots  are  one 
Throughout  this  life,  and  for  eternity. 
Therefore,  speak  ye  our  doom;  that  from  your  path 
Our  own  shall  parted  be  for  evermore ! '  — 

"  « For  evermore ! '  resounded  through  the  dome, 
As  rude  hands  seized  us,  and,  with  hasty  zeal, 
Close  chained  us  to  the  dead.     Then  darkness  fell 
Upon  our  eyes,  and  every  sound  of  earth 
Seemed  hushed  forever.     And  I  thought  that  Death 
Had  broken  those  dread  chains,  and  set  us  free. 
And  so  I  slept  again.     When  next  I  woke 
The  night-winds  swept  athwart  my  fevered  brow, 
And  on  mine  ear  fell  the  cool  plash  of  waves. 
I  strove  to  rise,  but  vainly ;  for  the  chains 
Lay  heavy  on  my  limbs.    I  only  saw 
The  far-off  heaven  and  the  shining  stars. 
And  yet  I  knew  I  was  not  all  alone 
Amid  that  silence ;  for,  close  beside  me, 
And  bound  in  the  same  fetters,  lay  the  dead ; 
And,  though  I  saw  her  not,  I  felt  my  bride 
Had  shared  the  self-same  doom.    I  strove  to  speak, 
But  utterance  was  denied  me ;  to  move, 
That  I  might  look  on  her ;  the  power  was  gone, 
And  I  was  weaker  than  the  feeblest  child. 
Thought,  memory,  alone  were  left  to  me. 
But  they  proved  tyrants  in  tnafc  fearful  hour, 
And  only  brought  me  bitterest  agony ; 
Conjuring  up  wild  dreams  of  her  despair 


REGINA.  21 

Till  Reason  tottered  on  its  trembling  throne. 
But  the  night  winds  were  cool,  and  so  their  breath 
Soothed  the  wild  fever  burning  in  my  veins, 
And  I  grew  calm,  and  very  still,  and  smiled, 
Thinking  of  Death. 

"  I  felt  we  were  alone. 

No  sounds  of  earth  came  sighing  through  the  night, 
And  all  things  human,  save  ourselves,  were  far. 
Our  boat,  so  fragile,  tossed  upon  the  waves 
As  'twere  a  plaything  yielded  to  their  sport. 
And  if,  from  yon  pale  planets  of  the  sky, 
Angels  looked  down,  what  saw  they  on  the  deep  ? 
A  lone  bark,  bearing  on  its  lighted  prow 
Two  living  forms  yet  chained  unto  the  dead, 
While  Night  and  Silence,  they  lay  over  all ! 

"  I  watched  the  stars  fade,  —  with  a  dim  thought 
That  never  more  their  gleam  should  meet  mine  eyes. 
And,  as  the  sun  rose  o'er  wide  ocean's  breast, 
There  came  a  faint  and  feverish  sense  of  thirst 
Unto  my  parched  lips  ;  but  vain  would  be 
All  effort  for  relief;  and  so  I  lay 
Suffering  in  silence.    The  breeze  had  died 
From  off  the  ocean,  and  its  waters  slept 
In  waveless  calm,  beneath  a  burning  sun ; 
And  on  its  idle  breast  our  little  bark 
As  idle  lay,  and  motionless.    The  sun, 
That  seemed  to  move  amid  a  cloudless  sky 
A  living  ball  of  fire,  shone  on  the  sea 
As  though  it  sought  to  quench  immortal  thirst 
In  the  unfathomed  deep;  and  scorchingly 
Its  rays  fell  on  mine  unprotected  head, 
Till,  in  my  fierce,  impotent  agony, 
I  prayed  for  death ;  but  death  was  far  away. 

"  And  so  the  day  wore  on,  —  the  same  dead  calm, 
The  same  pitiless  sun.    But,  ere  it  closed, 
Far  in  the  west  there  rose  a  small  black  cloud, 
And  fast  it  spread  along  the  horizon, 
Till,  as  the  sun,  a  blood-red,  flaming  orb, 
Departed  hence  to  light  another  world, 
The  little  cloud  had  darkened  all  the  sky, 
And  wrapped  the  sea  in  night.     A  moment  held 
All  things  as  chained  in  silence,  and  I  heard 
Only  the  gurgling  gaspicg  of  my  breath. 
Then  came  the  storm  in  all  its  fearful  might, 
Scooping  the  waters  in  its  onward  sweep, 
And  flinging  the  white  spray  from  wave  to  wave, 


22  REGINA. 

As  the  wild  ocean  were  a  thing  for  sport,  — 

A  feather  in  its  path !     And  the  winds  raved. 

And  moaned,  and  shrieked,  in  their  demoniac  glee ; 

While  the  racked  waves,  all  torn  and  shattered,  made 

Treaty  with  the  winds,  and,  with  blended  tones, 

Sent  fearful  music  on  their  maddened  sweep. 

1 '  And  our  1  ight  bark !    How  lived  it  through  the  gale  ? 
I  know  not ;  but  it  seemed  a  charmed  thing, 
And  rode  the  raging  billows  as  a  bird 
That  findeth  there  its  native  element. 
And  I  ?    Methought  my  soul  had  found  its  sphere, 
So  fiercely  it  rushed  forth  and  merged  itself 
In  the  wild  strife  of  nature,  only  glad 
To  be  so  free  once  more ! 

"  So  glad!     So  free! 
That  I  forgot  the  iron  on  my  limbs, 
And  felt  my  heart  throb  high  in  deepest  pride, 
And,  for  a  time,  —  an  hour  of  wildest  mirth,  — 
Kecked  little  of  the  hushed  heart  by  my  side, 
Nor  mourned  o'er  the  fair  victim  lying  there. 
But  soon  there  came,  as  fire-damp  to  the  flame, 
The  hour  of  dull  reaction ;  and  my  soul 
Drooped  from  its  soaring  pinions,  and  so  fell, 
All  crushed  and  strengthless,  to  the  lowest  depths 
Of  darkness  and  despair.    The  storm  raved  on, 
And  the  vexed  ocean  moaned  in  agony, 
As  mother  o'er  her  dying  child ;  while  I  — 
The  life  of  life,  the  trust  in  human  love, 
Was  dying  in  my  heart.    O'er  my  young  bride,  — 
So  lately  known,  —  so  loved,  —  death's  wing  had  lain, 
And  I  might  look  upon  her  gentle  face, 
And  hear  her  soft  and  loving  voice,  no  more. 

"  Was  that  the  cry  of  some  lone  albatross, 
Far  on  its  daring  way,  or  but  a  wail 
Wrung  from  mine  own  convulsed  and  swollen  lip  ? 
Again  it  sounded,  and,  with  one  swift  bound, 
I  burst  my  chain,  and  looked  upon  my  bride. 
Praise  to  the  Life-Giver !     She  was  not  dead ; 
Nor  I  left  all  compauionless  'mid  the  waste 
Of  that  wild  ocean !     Through  the  fearful  war 
Of  elements  let  loose ;  through  all  the  long 
And  racking  agony  that  I  had  borne, 
She  had  slept  calmly  on,  and  felt  it  not, 
Wrapped  in  that  deep  and  blessed  forgetfulness. 
But  now  she  wakened,  and  the  dreamless  trance, 


RE  GIN  A.  23 

That  had  so  bound  her  senses,  broke  away 
In  the  wild  wail  that  had  so  startled  me. 

"  Regina,  I  have  looked  on  Death  since  then ; 
Have  known  of  joy  and  grief  most  various  thrill ; 
But  never  yet  hath  sound  so  full  of  joy,  — 
So  rich  in  weight  of  blessing,  -*-  come  to  me, 
As  came  unto  my  wild  and  fevered  heart, 
When  her  soft  voice  went  sighing  o'er  the  sea; 
And  every  pulsing  of  her  heart  did  say 
That  Life  was  throbbing  where  I  looked  for  Death ! 

"  Day  after  day  our  frail  bark  floated  on, 
Sole  moving  thing  upon  that  dreary  main. 
But  we  recked  little  of  Time's  passing  then, 
Though  Death  glanced  mocking  from  each  crested  wave. 
But  GOD  was  merciful.     The  gentle  rain 
Fell  frequent  from  the  clouds,  with  its  cool  drops 
The  torturing  fever-thirst  allaying  still; 
And  Ocean  brought  us  from  no  distant  shore 
A  waftage  of  fair  fruits,  that  still  sufficed 
To  dull  the  hunger-pain.     So  the  days  went ; 
And  still  our  slight,  but  angel-guarded  boat 
Moved  onward  o'er  the  ever-rolling  sea. 

"  One  morn  —  its  beauty  fills  my  vision  now  — 
Sweet  sounds,  long  silent,  broke  the  spell  of  sleep. 
The  joyous  song  of  birds,  the  wind's  soft  breath, 
Made  musical  the  densely  foliaged  trees ; 
And  the  clear  rush  of  waters,  as  they  dashed 
Against  the  rocks  and  on  the  pebbly  shore 
Was  heard  through  rustling  leaves.    All  these  were  tones 
That  brought  to  eyes  that  had  been  burning  hot 
A  flood  of  passionate  weeping.     On  our  ears, 
Making  them  know  the  usage  they  had  lost, 
Those  sounds  fell  sweetly  as  an  angel's  song. 
Tor  we  —  O  joy  too  deep  for  utterance  !  — 
Might  tread  the  blessed  mother-earth  once  more ! 

"Nor  desolate,  nor  uninhabited 
The  land  whereon  the  waves  had  drifted  us ; 
For  with  the  sun  came  voices  to  the  shore, 
Voices  that  spake  the  old  familiar  tongue 
That  lingered  with  my  childhood ;  and  the  words 
Thrilled  to  my  heart  as  from  the  grave  they  came. 
I  could  not  speak,  —  I  had  no  language  then,  — 
And  on  my  lips  the  words  hung  powerless. 
I  only  pointed  to  the  fettered  form 


24  REGINA. 

That  lay  beside  me ;  looking  the  wild  prayer 

I  could  not  breathe  in  words,  that  they  would  break 

Her  chains,  and  bring  her  back  to  life  again. 

"  They  were  of  gentlest  mien,  that  island  race; 
Of  softest  speech  and  eyes ;  yet  were  they  framed 
Of  that  stern  stuff  whereof  men  martyrs  make. 
Fragile  of  form,  pale-browed,  and  golden-haired, 
They  had  such  look  as  meekest  angels  wear 
When  GOD  smiles  on  them;  yet  beneath  this  veil 
Slumbered  the  strength  that  triumphs  over  death 
And  darkness  and  despair.     They  were  of  those 
Who  have  outborne  the  worst  of  torture-pains ; 
And  with  true  heart,  and  firm  uplifted  soul, 
Have  hushed  in  silence  their  lips  never  broke 
The  keenest  pangs  of  human  agony. 

"  Such  were  the  hearts  —  so  gentle,  true,  and  brave  — 
Who  spoke  our  welcome  to  their  island  shore, 
And  gave  the  exiles  refuge  and  a  home, 
Till  we  forget,  in  that  so  blessed  rest, 
The  dread  anathema  that  bade  us  live 
As  wanderers  and  homeless  evermore. 

"  There  was  a  quiet  lake  within  that  isle 
Whose  glassing  waters  knew  not  one  deep  sound 
Of  Ocean's  mightier  wave ;  and  only  sent 
A  rippling  murmur  from  its  grassy  nest 
To  float  along  its  shore,  aiid  blend  alway 
With  the  soft  tonings  of  the  earth  and  sky. 
And  by  that  lake,  where  through  the  dusky  eve 
The  plash  of  coolest  waters  caught  the  ear, 
Made  we  our  home.    And  the  calm  years  moved  on 
With  scarce  a  breath  of  change,  till  thou,  my  child, 
Hadst  counted  seven  summers;  then  there  came 
A  day  of  darkness,  blighting  all  this  bloom. 

"  I  was  a  wanderer  ever,  —  restless, 
And  of  unquiet  mood  ;  and  oftentimes 
Would  spread  a  sail  to  catch  the  rising  breeze, 
Yet  never  went  I  forth  companionless. 
Thy  angel-mother  linked  her  fate  with  mine, 
And  braved  the  ocean-terrors  fearlessly, 
While  thou,  my  child,  with  outstretched  hands  didst  greet 
The  crested  billows  of  the  foaming  deep ; 
And  smile  when  o'er  thy  brow  the" spray-showers  fell,  — 
For  innocence  like  thine,  a  baptism  meet. 
So  I  read  the  sport  of  those  wild  waters, 


REGINA.  25 

And  in  ray  secret  soul,  I  vowed  for  thee 

Faith,  Hope,  Charity,  and  in  fancy  taught 

All  deepest  lessons  that  to  earth  are  given. 

I  knew  thy  lot  was  cast  in  troublous  times; 

And  in  thy  young  clear  eyes,  so  cloudless  yet, 

There  slept  a  shadow  that  might  darken  soon 

And  deepen  into  night.     And  then  I  learned 

Unto  mine  own  tamed  heart  a  higher  trust, 

And  mightier  strength  to  bear,  so  to  give  thee 

Life's  truest  lessonings.     That  task  is  o'er : 

And  I  go  down  to  silence  and  to  dust 

Where  all  these  things  are  heard  not ;  leaving  thee 

The  seeds  from  whence  life's  great  events  do  spring. 

"  But  time  wears  on.     My  tale  is  not  yet  told; 
And  this  poor  struggling  frame  must  linger  still 
Upon  its  couch  of  pain.     A  little  space,  — 
A  passing  hour,  — and  this  pulse  of  mine 
Shall  know  '  the  taste  of  rest,'  never  again 
To  throb  in  joy  or  pain !     Enough !  the  Past 
Doth  call  me  to  itself.     My  island  home 
Dawns  on  my  vision,  slowly  —  smilingly. 

"  It  was  a  morn  of  spring.    That  glorious  time 
When  Earth  seems  born  anew,  and  doth  put  on 
The  garmenture  of  youth,  and  looketh  up 
With  a  smiling  brow  to  Heaven.    Our  bark  was  moored 
Just  off  the  pebbly  beach;  and  on  its  prow, 
Ere  yet  the  sun  rose  from  his  ocean-bed, 
Thy  mother  sat,  her  arm  around  thy  form  ; 
Both  watching  me,  as  from  its  secret  hold 
I  drew  the  anchor  up.     Sail  after  sail 
Was  given  to  the  winds,  and  long  ere  noon 
Our  fairy  home,  Exila's  isle,  had  dipped 
Below  the  horizon.     A  night  went  by, 
Another  day  was  waning  to  its  close, 
Ere  our  wild  ocean-bird,  with  willing  speed, 
Sought  the  loved  shore  again.     'Twas  changed  all. 
The  spoiler,  the  remorseless,  had  been  there 
And  death  and  silence  were  our  welcome  home ! 

"  I  mind  me  well  how  on  my  native  hills 
A  stately  forest  grew,  the  peasants'  pride, 
Where  never  yet  the  sounding  axe  had  been; 
And  in  its  solemn  shadow  all  were  wont 
To  roam  at  eventide.     Calm  at  its  feet 
A  silent  lakelet  slept,  whose  waves  scarce  knew 
The  touch  of  sunshine,  those  far-reaching  trees 


26  REGINA. 

Did  so  o'ermantle  them ;  and  so  the  dusk 

Seemed  ever  o'er  that  stillest  wave  to  glide. 

One  night,  there  came  through  all  its  holy  hush 

A  hurtling  sound,  —  a  whisper  gathering  strength,  — 

A  rush  as  of  ten  thousand  battling  storms 

A  moment  passing  —  and  then  all  was  still 

As  death ;  cold  as  the  silence  of  the  grave ! 

Morn  broke,  and  on  the  sickly  eye  of  day 

Flamed  forth  Destruction's  aspect  terrible. 

The  gentle  hill  whereon  the  forest  grew, 

The  quiet  lake  beneath,  had  vanished, 

And  in  their  place  a  vast  and  fetid  plain 

Loomed  low  in  all  its  dark  deformity ; 

While  o'er  its-  lifeless  waters,  dull  and  green, 

Already  were  the  marish-mosses  growing  1 

"  So  to  that  meek  and  gentle  island  race 
The  deadly  hour  of  persecution  came. 
At  morn,  the  holy  song  of  praise  went  up 
To  Heaven  through  the  soft  and  sweet  spring  air 
From  light  and  joyous  hearts,  —  from  young  and  old,  • 
And  every  pulse  sang  "  Glory  unto  GOD!  " 
At  eve,  the  worse  than  silence  of  the  grave, 
The  desolation  of  desolation 
Held  its  revel  there !     Our  holiest  fanes 
Were  levelled  with  the  dust.     Our  quiet  homes 
Were  scattered  stone  by  stone,  and  o'er  their  place 
Slowly  the  sea-bird  winged  its  fearless  flight. 

"  Lo !  a  voice  upon  that  silence  floating  low 
Soft,  silver-sounding,  but  too  sadly  sweet :  — 

"  '  Alas  for  thee,  fair  Island !  thou  wert  doomed 
To  bear  upon  thy  glad  and  sunny  brow 
Destruction's  fatal  seal.     Thou  that  didst  rise 
From  the  blue  depths  of  Ocean,  truest  type 
Of  glory  crowning  labor,  the  sure  seal 
Wherewith  success  doth  stamp  slow,  patient  toil ;  — 
Even  thou,  whose  birth-hour  breathed  "  Eureka,'* 
Must  go  down  to  very  nothingness,  and  be 
That  which  thou  art  and  hast  been,  nevermore. 
Thy  doom  was  sung  when  first  the  sun  beheld  thee; 
For  the  great  deep  but  lent  thee  unto  Day 
That  thy  lone  shores  for  a  sad  homeless  race 
A  refuge  and  abiding  sure  should  be. 
They  have  departed,  as  the  daylight  fades 
When  the  swift  hurricane  sweeps  o'er  the  land, 
And  on  thy  shore,  the  strangers,  only,  breathe. 


REGIKA.  27 

Their  path  is  otherwhere.    They  leave  not  here 

Their  dust  for  wandering  waves  to  revel  o'er. 

They  shall  depart  in  other  lands  to  keep 

All  saddest  thoughts  of  their  low-buried  home; 

But  for  the  dead,  who  lie  upon  thy  breast, 

Pale  martyrs  unto  Superstition's  zeal,  — 

O'er  their  cold  brows  must  ocean-waters  flow. 

Ay !  over  all ;  but  only  o'er  their  dust. 

For  twixt  that  morn  and  eve  —  when  Murder  stalked 

Over  man's  erring  soul  predominant, 

And  deaf  to  Mercy's  plea  —  a  thousand  souls 

Went  rushing  up  to  GOD  :  before  his  throne 

Outpraying  thus,  "  How  long,  O  Lord,  how  long?  "  — 

"  '  Ye  weep.    If  for  the  isle,  where  first  ye  heard 
The  simpler  breathings  of  that  little  one, 
I  will  not  stay  your  tears.     But  to  the  dead 
Whose  dust  doth  lie  before  ye,  give  no  tears ! 
They  have  but  fall'n  as  GOD  appointed  them ; 
And,  for  each  parted  friend,  an  angel  more 
Is  added  to  GOD'S  host.    They  have  but  gone 
Before  ye  to  their  home. 

"  '  But  haste  ye  now 

And  flee  these  doomed  shores ;  for,  from  the  south, 
All  dark  and  sullen  with  the  brooding  storm, 
Sweeps  the  low  line  of  white  and  drifting  clouds, 
On-driven  by  the  wind  that  moans  along 
The  restless  bosom  of  the  unquiet  deep. 
Speed  ye  your  steps  !     The  time  is  very  brief. 
Still  your  light  bark  doth  rest  upon  the  wave, 
Calm  as  an  infant  on  its  mother's  breast. 
An  hour  hence,  and  the  fierce  winds,  let  loose, 
Will  scoop  the  waters  into  wildest  forms, 
And  fling  their  foam-wreaths  o'er  that  vessel's  prow; 
And  ye,  thus  made  of  elements  the  sport, 
Will  know  their  very  pastime  terrible. 
But  fear  ye  not.     The  Holiest  is  there. 
The  GOD  who  ruleth  storm,  and  wind,  and  sea. 
The  GOD  who  loveth  all !  '  — 

"  As  dies  the  swell 

Of  some  soft  hymn  upon  the  summer  air, 
Leaving  a  haunting  echo  of  its  tone 
Unto  the  heart  forever ;  so  that  voice 
Fell  faint,  then  soundless  all. 

"  Slowly  we  went. 

Our  lingering  feet  seemed  loth  to  leave  the  soil 
They  might  not  press  again ;  our  yearning  eyes 
Turned  frequent  to  each  fair  and  cherished  scene, 


28  HE  GIN  A. 

Never  to  meet  their  longing  vision  more, 
Save  in  some  dream.    And  I  had  lingered  yet  — 
Perchance  had  perished  with  Exila's  isle, 
But  that  thy  mother's  hand  fell  soft  on  mine 
With  sweet,  compelling  sway;  and  so  we  went. 
Forth  to  the  breeze  we  flung  our  snowy  sail, 
And  in  the  distance,  fading  fast  away, 
Sunk  the  lone  islet,  on  whose  pleasant  shore 
Looked  never  human  eye  again ! 

"Day  passed, 

And  o'er  the  red  and  stormy  sunset  glow 
The  night  came  down,  starry  and  beautiful,  — 
A  night  without  a  cloud  !     The  horned  moon, 
Just  hovering  o'er  the  dim  and  trackless  verge 
Of  farthest  ocean,  slowly  vanished. 
And  'neath  the  soft  and  holy  light  of  stars 
I  kept  my  lonely  vigil,  watching  o'er 
A  sleeping  wife  and  child.     For  me  the  night 
Had  lost  its  slumbrous  spell ;  my  pained  lids 
Were  throbbing  'neath  the  weight  of  unshed  tears, 
Tears  that  went  flowing  back  upon  my  soul 
Marking  the  pride  that  kept  their  flood-tide  back, 
Nor  gave  to  grief  its  sweetest  utterance. 
Yet  blessings  on  that  night !    It  gave  me  strength 
To  bear  all  after-growth  of  human  ills. 
Unto  my  soul  it  taught  the  lesson  deep, 
To  suffer  and  be  silent;  asking  not 
Wherefore  the  doom  to  wander  evermore 
Was  meted  out  as  mine.     Gently  the  night 
Shed  o'er  mine  aching  brows  its  cooling  dews, 
And  o'er  my  heart,  so  fevered  and  so  wild, 
Its  holy  influence. 

"  There  came  a  morn 
In  rarest  splendor  garmented,  —  a  day 
All  flush  and  glowing  in  the  crimson  rays 
Of  a  more  crimson  sun.     In  the  far  south 
Vast  piles  of  clouds  loomed  up  magnificent, 
Like  mountain  ranges,  on  whose  snow-clad  steeps 
The  roses  of  the  sunset  lingered  yet, 
Keluctant  to  depart.     Above,  the  sky, 
Of  deepest,  darkest  hue,  was  flecked  with  clouds, 
Pale  rose-leaves  scattered  o'er  a  field  of  blue ; 
And  earth,  spread  out  beneath  that  glorious  arch, 
Seemed  not  less  fair,  less  bright,  less  beautiful. 
She  wore  her  robe  of  early  summer  beauty, 
Her  brow  was  crowned  and  radiant  with  delight, 
And  in  her  smile  was  joy  that  never  words 
Of  mortal  framing  could  link  unto  song ! 


REGINA. 

"  Such,  and  so  fair,  the  morn  when  our  frail  bark, 
From  its  long  ocean  wandering  released, 
Lay  idly  tossing  on  yon  river's  breast. 
Thou  know'st  the  rest,  —  how  on  that  river's  shore 
We  reared  our  quiet  cot,  and  how  the  years 
Went  by  so  happily,  till  from  our  hearts, 
GOD  called  an  angel  home. 

"And  now  the  night, 

Whose  morn  for  me  hath  other  light  than  ours, 
Doth  verge  upon  its  noon.     Ere  thou  canst  count 
The  beatings  of  an  hour's  pulse,  my  life 
Will  be  a  part  of  what  hath  been ;  and  thou, 
Mine  only  one  —  motherless  —  fatherless.  — 

0  GOD,  who  art  forever,  keep  my  child !  "  — 

Enough !  there  ceased  the  tale ;  and  the  dear  voice 
Whose  music  filled  my  life,  grew  hushed  and  still 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  an  angel's  wing; 
The  passing  wing  of  Death.     Alone,  alone,  — 
From  midnight  unto  midnight  keeping  watch, 

1  sat  beside  the  dead.     I  could  not  weep ; 

My  tears  seemed  burned  up.     I  could  not  pray ; 
My  heart  had  grown  so  cold.    And  so  —  and  so  — 
The  hours  drifted  by. 

Light  came  at  last 

On  the  darkness  dawning.    I  was  athirst 
For  the  cool  waters  of  a  sparkling  spring 
That  flowed  our  home  beside ;  and  I  went  forth. 
From  the  still  presence  of  the  holy  dead 
Into  the  light  of  day,  whose  every  throb 
Was  eloquent  of  life,  making  my  heart 
With  all  its  fevered  pulses  doubly  sad. 
There  went  a  sound  of  music  past  mine  ear,  — 
A  glad,  triumphant  strain,  breaking  the  spell 
That  grief  had  woven  round  me,  and  I  knew 
How  sorrow  seemeth  to  the  desolate. 
So  the  hot,  blinding  tears  came  fast,  ere  night, 
To  fall  upon  a  grave. 

Sleep  fanned  my  brow, 
Soft  stealing  o'er  my  senses,  and  I  slept ; 
Although  the  pillowing  of  my  weary  head 
Was  on  my  father's  grave.    My  dreams  were  strange, 
And  floated  past  my  brain  like  phantom  forms 
That  flit  before  the  day.    Another  world 
Seemed  opened  unto  me,  —  a  world  of  light, 
Wherein  all  things  did  wear  some  shape  or  form 
Of  deepest  loveliness.    Metliought,  the  sky 


30  REGINA. 

Was  softer,  bluer,  than  the  sky  which  smiled 
Upon  my  childhood,  and  flashing  by  me, 
Its  clear  waves  flecked  with  light,  there  rushed  on 
A  fair  and  glorious  river,  on  vvhose  breast 
A  thousand  sails  gleamed  white  beneath  the  sun. 
Its  shores  were  palace-crowned,  and  stateliest  fanes 
O'ertopped  the  proudest  of  the  ancient  trees 
Whose  foliage  fluttered  in  the  ambient  breeze, 
And  made  their  very  shadow  musical. 
Methought,  while  yet  I  gazed,  and  as  mine  eyes 
Paid  homage  to  this  beauty,  that  there  came 
Between  me  and  the  glory  of  the  scene 
A  form  of  darkness,  moving  swiftly  on, 
Filling,  with  its  cold,  impalpable  gloom, 
The  very  atmosphere.     I  inly  shook, 
And  shivered  with  the  frost  that  chilled  my  veins, 
And  pressed  my  cold  hands  on  as  cold  a  brow. 
I  looked  again.     The  phantom  of  the  night 
Had  passed  away.     Its  destined  work  was  done ; 
And  that  fair  scene,  so  consummate  in  itself, 
Was  changed,  as  if  the  Angel  of  the  Tomb 
Had  shed  the  poison  from  his  folded  wing 
Upon  its  loveliness,  blotting  it  out 
From  Earth's  fair  breast  forever.     Fearful  gulfs, 
Whence  noisome  vapors  tainted  all  the  air, 
Yawned  hideous  in  the  midst.    Eocks  piled  on  rocks, 
All  black  and  smoke-begrimed,  were  frowning  dark 
Where  late  the  river  flowed  so  royally ; 
And  not  one  stone  of  all  those  fairy  domes 
.Was  left  to  tell  their  fate.     All,  all,  had  gone. 
Destruction,  only,  ruled  where  man  had  raised 
The  noblest  fabrics  of  his  daring  pride.  f 
The  mighty  earth,  that  bore  them  on  her  breasi, 
Was  now  their  tomb,  and  all  that  breathing  life 
Went  quick  into  the  grave,  —  was  swallowed  up 
In  the  passing  of  a  thought! 

I  woke, 

The  river  of  my  dream  flowed  at  my  feet, 
And  the  great  city,  fancy  made  so  fair, 
Was  present  to  1113'  sight,  no  air-drawn  shape 
By  dreaming  pencil  traced,  but  all  instinct 
With  form  and  substance.     It  was  no  mirage, 
No  mocking  vision  that  I  saw,  and  yet, 
How  came  I  there?    I  know  not,  even  now, 
Save  that  sleep  found  me  by  my  father's  grave, 
And  when  I  woke,  some  hour  after  noon, 
'Tvvas  'mid  the  splendor  of  that  city  fair. 


RE  GIN  A.  31 

I  was  alone  —  within  a  gorgeous  room 
Most  royally  apparelled,  where  the  mind 
Found  fitting  food  for  thought.     All  forms  of  grace, 
Breathing  through  marble  as  if  life  were  there, 
Were  scattered  round  me.     I  can  see  them  now,  — 
Pale  as  the  moonlight,  soft,  and  white,  and  still, 
And  yet  withal  so  wild  and  passionate. 
My  heart  trembled  with  its  rapture,  and  ray  soul 
Was  tilled  with  their  beauty,  till  my  tears 
Flowed  fast  and  silently. 

There  was  a  couch 
Within  a  curtained  recess,  and  I  lay 
Upon  its  crimson  cushions,  marvelling 
If  these  strange  changes  were  not  shadows  all, 
And  I  a  sleeper,  and  a  dreamer  still! 
But,  thinking  so,  there  floated  past  mine  ear 
A  strain  of  saddest  music,  wailingly, 
Sighing  itself  to  silence  as  it  passed. 
Again  it  sounded,  sobbing,  sorrowful, 
As  though  it  were  a  dirge  o'er  buried  hopes 
Poured  forth  by  some  lone  heartr,  that  only  now, 
When  death  was  waiting  for  its  parting  throb, 
Might  give  unto  the  feelings  of  a  life 
A  brief,  but  all-sufficing  utterance. 

I  knew  it  was  the  Death-Song  of  the  Swan. 


;  And  I  must  die !     From  the  sun-lighted  river 
And  from  the  glory  of  the  summer-day, 

I  must  depart ;  and  where  pale  lilies  shiver, 
There  must  the  Swan  pour  forth  his  dying  lay. 

1 1  hear  the  fountains  in  the  far  woods  rushing 
With  silvery  singing  to  the  solemn  sea; 

I  see  the  morn  with  rosy  shadows  flushing 
The  free  blue  sky  that  smileth  still  on  me. 

;  Life's  pulse  is  throbbing  round  me,  upward  springing, 

As  if  no  spell  could  tame  its  spirit-glee; 
While  I  —  the  very  dust  to  me  seems  clinging, 
Bearing  me  downward  where  no  joy  may  be. 

Yet  ere  I  go,  beneath  the  death-wave  sinking, 
To  look  on  earth's  soft  beauty  nevermore, 

Let  me  but  sing  one  song,  that  sadly  linking 
My  name  to  earth,  may  float  alon°%  this  shore. 


32  REGINA. 

"  For  I  have  loved  it,  with  a  full  heart  ever, 

Though  fate  denied  all  utterance  to  that  heart, 
And  bade  my  joy  be  silent,  speaking  never 
Till  Death  come  unto  me,  and  I  depart. 

"  The  voice  of  Summer  on  mine  ear  is  stealing, 
Sweet,  clear,  eloquent,  as  in  years  gone  by; 
And  the  light  falls  on  beauty,  soft  revealing 
All  fairest  things  that  move  beneath  the  sky. 

"  Bright  in  the  sunshine  rippling  waves  are  sparkling; 

Lightly  they  part  them  to  my  snowy  breast ; 
And  'neath  the  shadow  of  the  trees  lie  darkling 
A  thousand  haunts  where  I  from  sport  might  rest. 

"  Gladly  and  gayly,  the  laughter-loving  hours 

Hasten  their  bright  and  sunny  way  to  tread ; 
While,  stealing  perfume  from  the  summer-flowers, 
The  wild,  free  winds  go  singing  o'er  my  head. 

"  And  I  must  leave  all  this !  the  full  life  glowing 

Thro'ugh  ail  this  beauty  may  be  mine  no  more. 
Far  from  this  pleasant  shore  my  life  is  flowing, 
And  with  my  song  its  dream  *of  joy  is  o'er. 

"  Oh !  for  one  throb  of  the  weak  pulse  now  dying, 

To  breathe  a  song  that  might  not  pass  away ! 
In  vain !     The  shadow  on  the  stream  is  lying, 
And  silence  settles  o'er  the  waning  day." 


Alas  !  the  Swan,  its  death-song  sadly  singing, 
Mourning  o'er  fair  things  it  might  see  no  more, 
Had  roused  my  soul  from  its  forgetful  slumber, 
To  thoughts  of  buried  love,  and  lonely  graves. 
I  knew  I  was  alone  upon  the  earth ; 
No  human  heart  claimed  kindred  unto  mine ; 
And  in  my  youth  of  years,  and  untried  strength, 
I  must  go  forth  to  brave  the  armed  might 
Of  a  cold,  careless  world,  and  struggle  on 
Apart,  unaided,  with  no  loving  eyes 
To  brighten  if  I  triumph ;  no  fond  hearts 
To  veil  me  with  their  love,  and  make  their  truth 
Armor  of  proof,  and  buckler  unto  me  ! 
The  countless  pulses  of  a  city's  heart 
Were  throbbing  all  around  me,  finding  each 
Their  own  responding  thrill ;  but  mine  had  none. 
I  was  a  stranger  in  a  foreign  land,  — 


HEGINA.  33 

A  captive  dreaming  of  my  own  far  home, 
And  vainly  pining  for  the  pure  fresh  air 
I  might  not  breathe  again ! 

They  gave  to  me 

A  home  that  kings  might  envy ;  rarely  decked 
With  all  that  could  give  pleasure  to  the  eye. 
I  liked  it  not.     They  gave  me  wealth  untold 
To  lavish  at  my  will,  and  power  too ; 
For  I  was  beautiful,  and  these  stern  priests 
"Were  vassals  to  rny  smile,  and  willing  slaves 
To  do  my  slightest  bidding,  and  to  give 
All  things  save  freedom;  and  for  that  I  pined. 
They  called  me  free,  and  deemed  me  well  content 
To  wear  the  fetters  they  had  forged  for  me, 
Because  their  hue  was  gleaming  as  with  gold, 
And  they  were  flower-wreathed.    But  I  had  been 
Free  as  the  mountain  air,  and  like  a  bird 
Had  wandered  wheresoe'er  it  listed  me. 
They  caged  that  bird.     What  marvel  if  it  pined, 
And  beat  its  wings  against  the  frowning  bars 
That  stood  between  it  and  the  free  blue  heaven! 
What  marvel  if  the  gilded  chains  I  wore 
Soon  pressed  deep  their  iron  in  my  soul, 
And  I  grew  cold  and  hard  like  to  their  links,  — 
My  woman-heart  all  silent,  till  its  pulse 
Seemed  dead  or  dying.     Little  recked  I  then 
If  smile  of  mine  gave  pleasure  or  gave  pain ; 
As  little  dreamed  of  hope,  or  love,  so  low 
My  soul  had  fallen  in  its  apathy. 

I  knew  that  I  was  beautiful.     Stern  eyes 
Melted  into  softness  if  their  gaze  met  mine; 
And  changing  cheek,  and  trembling  hand  and  lip, 
Were  signs  whose  meaning  I  had  learned  full  well, 
But  little  cared  to  see.     Time  wrought  its  work : 
And  some  who  fancied  they  could  love  but  me 
Wooed  other  maids,  and  soon  forgot  me  quite ; 
While  two  or  three  —  the  summer  grass  is  green 
Above  their  early  graves,  and  they  changed  not, 
But  loved  me  to  the  last.     And  yet  they  all 
Looked  joyous  in  my  presence,  smiling  still 
With  such  sweet  brows,  I  could  not  think  their  hearts 
Were  breaking  all  the  while.     I  knew  not  then 
How  truest  love  may  mask  its  secret  pangs 
With  quiet  smiles,  that  so  the  one  beloved 
May  never  know  its  bitter  agony, 
Or  mark  how  fast  the  quick  and  fevered  pulse 
Doth  beat  unto  the  grave. 
3 


34  EEGINA. 

But  one  there  was 

Among  the  courtly  throng  that  fluttered  round, 
Who  loved  me  not  as  these,  and  only  gave 
Such  love  as  brother  unto  sister  gives. 
But  it  sufficed  me.     I  gave  him  back 
Like  measure  of  affection,  grateful  still 
For  the  pure  stream  thus  offered  to  the  thirst 
That  drained  my  heart- veins,  slowly,  painfully. 
He  was  a  fair,  pale  youth,  with  bluest  eyes, 
Most  like  unto  my  mother's,  pure  and  sweet, 
From  whence  anangel  looked  evermore. 
He  had  a  brow  all  white  and  undefiled, 
Upon  whose  fair  expanse  the  poet-soul 
Had  set  its  holiest  seal;  and  arched  lips 
That  trembled  to  each  feeling  of  his  heart, 
And  only  spake,  in  accents  clear  and  low, 
Such  words  as  angels  might  not  choose  but  speak, 
Nor  speaking,  blush  to  hear.     He  was  of  those 
Whose  hearts  seem  thrilling  into  music-tones,  — 
Who  breathe  away  their  very  soul  in  song, 
And  die  while  singing !     He  was  as  a  plant 
That  hath  one  single  stem  and  many  buds, 
But  never  beareth  flower,  and  hath  no  seed. 
I  loved  him ;  but  it  was  with  such  a  love 
As  hath  its  fruit  in  bitter  tears,  not  joy, 
Making  us  know  earth's  vanity.     With  love, 
O'er  which  the  shadow  of  the  doom  to  come 
Is  lying  darkly,  teaching  to  our  hearts 
The  weary  wasting  of  a  dying  hope. 
I  knew  he  could  not  live.     I  saw  too  well 
How  the  high  soul  was  fretting  'gainst  its  chains; 
And  yet  this  fragile  form,  this  fleeting  life, 
Was  all  to  which  my  weary  heart  could  cling,  — 
Was  all  that  roused  the  woman  in  my  heart, 
Making  it  beat  again ! 

One  Autumn  eve  — 

Whose  glories  robed  the  hills  in  burning  gold, 
And  touched  the  clouds  \vith  crimson  —  found  us  both 
Roving  beside  the  swift  and  rushing  stream. 
Silent  we  moved,  all  conscious  of  the  spell 
Earth's  dying  beauty  laid  upon  our  souls, 
So  soft  and  dreamy  in  its  glamourye. 
Only  our  eyes  spake,  looking  every  thought, 
In  their  mute  language  eloquent.     There  came 
Upon  our  tranced  ears,  all  sudden,  swift, 
A  strain  of  muffled  music ;  fearfullest 
Of  all  that  city's  many  harmonies, 
For  that  it  told  of  judgment  dark  and  still, 


RE  GIN  A.  35 

And  sure  but  secret  doom.    We  drew  us  back 
Within  the  curtain  of  a  leafed  tree 
Whose  branches  fell  around  us  shroudingiy, 
And  watched  the  grim  procession  passing  by, 
In  saddest  silence  still. 

I  might  not  tell 

The  fearful  secrets  of  my  prison-house,  — 
An  oath  had  sealed  my  lips;  but  well  both  knew 
That  we  were  lost,  did  other  eyes  than  night's 
Peer  through  our  leafy  curtain;  so  we  hushed 
Our  very  breathing,  and  in  silence  gazed 
On  the  dark  line  beyond.     Slowly  they  went; 
The  fearful  music  following  their  steps, 
And  in  their  midst,  white-robed,  and  whiter-brow'd 
A  fragile  maiden  moved.     An  ice-cold  hand 
Fell  sudden  upon  mine,  yet  neither  spake,  — 
A  deeper  dread  had  frosted  o'er  our  lips,  — 
And  we  beheld  that  band,  as  midnight,  dark, 
Fade  into  shadow,  and  we  said  no  word 
Of  all  the  anguish  burning  in  our  hearts. 
The  music  died  away;  and  that  white  shape 
Passed  into  darkness,  as  into  the  grave ! 
Then  from  my  brother's  heart  there  came  a  prayer 
On  the  hush  trembling:  "  Have  mercy,  Heaven!  "  — 
Then  wailing  forth,  through  wan  and  ashen  lips  : 
"  O  my  beloved,  would  1  might  die  for  thee !  "  — 

I  asked  no  question  of  that  breaking  heart, 
I  knew  too  well  that  Earth  had  never  balm 
To  soothe  its  agony.     No  human  aid 
Could  reach  his  soul's  beloved;  she  was  e'en  now 
Beyond  redemption's  pale.     The  gentle  dove 
Was  in  the  vulture's  grasp;  the  secret  doom 
Had  silent  reached  its  victim;  and  I  knew 
It  was  too  late  to  succor  or  to  save ; 
To  GOD  belongeth  vengeance !     So  I  turned 
Me  where  my  brother  stood,  and  laid  my  hand 
Upon  his  pale  brow  lovingly,  so'to  say 
He  had  a  sister  still.     He  met  my  gaze 
With  such  a  holy  calm  upon  his  brow 
That  my  wrung  spirit  bowed  beneath  its  spell 
Forgetful  of  its  passing  dream  of  vengeance. 
For  I  so  loved  him.     Mournfully  his  voice 
Went  sighing  past  mine  ear,  for  in  its  tone 
There  was  a  something  caught  from  other  worlds, 
That  made  my  wild  heart  tremble  and  grow  still 
In  very  dread  of  losing  him.     He  was  more 
Thau  all  the  world  to  me,  and  as  he  spake 


36  RE  GIN  A. 

I  veiled  my  brow  to  listen,  hoping  still 
He  might  not  leave  me. 

"  Eegina,  sister, 

Do  thy  tears  fall  sorrowing  that  I  go 
To  join  my  loved  ones  in  a  purer  world? 
Rather  rejoice,  that  from  its  earthly  chains 
The  struggling  soul  shall  be  released  at  last. 
The  captive  doth  not  love  his  prison-bars ; 
They  come  between  him  and  the  world  without, 
And  mock  him  when  he  dreams  of  liberty. 
Dost  think  he  deems  it  an  unwelcome  hand 
That  breaks  those  bars,  and  makes  those  dreamings  truth? 
No !  for  the  boon  is  very  life  to  him ! 
And  to  the  soul,  whose'fetters  are  of  flesh, 
It  is  the  hand  of  Death  that  giveth  freedom ! 
I  fear  him  not.     His  aspect  unto  me 
Is  very  sweet,  most  tender  and  most  true ; 
And,  with  a  loving  hand,  he  leadeth  me 
Through  a  dark  shadowy  vale  unto  that  land 
Where  living  waters  flow.    And  she  —  the  maid  — 
Whom  thou  didst  see  but  now,  so  meek  and  pale, 
Found  faithful  unto  death,  doth  tread  with  me 
The  same  dark  pathway  to  the  one  bright  shore. 
Thou  knowest  that  I  love  her,  though  her  name 
Was  never  on  my  lips.    I  could  not  speak 
Of  love  to  one  so  fair,  so  beautiful, 
When  every  pulse  and  throbbing  of  my  heart 
Was  flitting  to  the  grave.     I  could  not  bring 
The  shadow  of  my  doom  o'er  her  bright  life 
To  darken  evermore ;  and  so  I  made 
My  poet-dreamings  eloquent  of  her, 
But  gave  unto  my  shrined  love  no  name ; 
And  yet  she  knew  I  loved  her.     Not  a  song 
Wherein  I  sang  to  Fame,  but  had  some  tone 
Wrung  from  the  minstrel's  heart,  to  tell  its  tale 
Though  only  unto  her.     Death's  touch  hath  drawn 
The  veil  from  off  mine  eyes,  and  well  I  know 
That  in  the  land  to  which- we  journey  now 
All  things  shall  be  revealed  —  nor  more  be  seen 
Darkly  as  through  a  glass.     I  know  that  there, 
All  sweetest  dreams,  all  pure  and  holy  thoughts, 
That  here  found  never  echo,  so  were  dumb, 
Shall  find  a  voice,  nor  longer  mock  the  soul 
With  their  unanswered  longings.     I  have  had 
Such  glorious  visions  of  that  Better  Land 
Whither  my  soul  is  tending !    Dreams  that  made 
All  earthly  splendor  wan,  and  sickly  pale ; 
Till  the  bright  sunshine  I  shall  see  no  more 


REG  IN  A.  37 

Seemed  but  another  name  for  darkness,  — 

A  shadow  of  the  night.     There  were  no  clouds 

To  dim  the  soft  effulgence  of  that  light, 

Radiant  and  far-shining,  wherein  the  host 

Of  angels,  cherubim  and  seraphim,  found 

The  essence  of  their  being  and  their  life. 

It  formed  the  crown  that  rested  on  each  brow, 

Token  of  victory  o'er  spirit- foes, 

And  triumph  over  Death.     For  light  —  for  crowu  — 

GOD'S  all-approving  smile  !     And 'this  shall  be 

The  meed  of  every  patient  human  heart. 

What  if  it  suffer  much  ?     What  if  it  know 

The  bitterness  of  life,  and  the  light  worth 

Of  earthly  joy  —  draining  unto  the  dregs 

The  seething  cup  of  mortal  agony? 

What  if  it  learn  to  bear  through  slowest  years 

The  wasting  torture  of  some  hope  deferred 

That  smiles,  an  ignis  fatuus,  but  to  lead 

Unto  a  goal  that,  hath  no  retrospect,  — 

No  past,  no  present,  and  no  future  morn? 

What  if  it  die  by  inches,  wounded,  worn, 

With  no  soft,  loving  hand  to  bind  its  hurt, 

No  faithful  heart  to  shield  it  from  the  storm, 

To  rob  misfortune  of  its  poisoned  dart, 

Or  blunt  the  arrow's  head?    And  what,  if  thus? 

So  the  poor  bleeding  heart  rebelleth  not 

But  own  its  trials  just;  so  the  true  soul 

But  pass  its  earth-probation  undeflled 

By  soiling  of  the  dust  that  shrineth  it ; 

What  matter  for  the  rest !    Earth's  years  of  pain 

Thrown  in  the  balance  'gainst  eternity 

Were  very  nothingness.     Take  from  the  shore 

A  grain  of  sand,  and  from  the  solemn  sea 

A  sparkling  drop.     Dost  miss  the  grain  of  sand 

From  the  lone  shore  where  it  so  long  had  lain  ? 

Doth  the  great  deep  forget  its  time  of  flood 

For  that  a  drop  was  gathered  from  its  wave  ? 

And  as  the  grain  of  sand  from  off  the  shore, 

And  as  the  drop  of  water  from  the  deep, 

So  are  the  years  of  man,  when  weighed  against 

The  endless  cycles  of  eternity. 

What  matter,  then,  if  this  poor  life  of  mine 

Doth  vanish  from  the  earth?    There  will  not  be 

A  tear  the  more  in  any  human  eye 

For  that  the  minstrel  of  a  fallen  race 

Is  passing  hence  away.     Sister,  farewell. 

The  chill  is  on  my  brow,  and  I  go  hence 

With  all  my  dreams  unanswered,  and  my  hopes, 


38  REGTNA. 

So  proud  and  joyous  once,  must  die  with  me  : 
They  rise  not  o'er  a  grave.     No  song  of  mine 
May  leave  an  echo  unto  after  years 
Telling  of  me.    No  trumpet-voice  of  fame 
Will  float  above  my  grave,  and  tell  the  world 
'A  minstrel  sleepeth  here.'    And  yet  I  go, 
"Resigning  me  to  earth's  forgetfulness, 
Content  to  know  that  in  the  Spirit  Land 
My  soul  shall  quench  its  thirst  in  purer  streams, 
And  from  the  burthen  of  this  mortal  coil 
Shall  rest  for  evermore.     Sweet  sister  mine, 
Lay  thou  thy  gentle  hand  upon  my  brow 
As  I  in  very  truth  had  been  thy  brother. 
So  —  so.     Twin  stars  have  fallen  from  the  sky, 
And  one  is  mine.     The  other  —  Agatha! 
Mine  own  —  Agatha!" 

Hush !  was  it  a  voice, 
Or  but  the  flutter  of  an  angel's  wing, 
That  floated  on  the  wind,  as  in  reply         t 
To  my  young  brother's  cry  of  "  Agatha"? 
It  faded,  blending  sadly  with  the  moan 
Of  waves  that  glide  by  night,  and  with  the  fall 
Funereal  sounding  of  the  autumn  leaves. 
Slowly  I  looked  up,  and  dimly  saw 
A  pale,  cold  shadow  creeping  o'er  the  sky; 
And  heard  the  wailing  of  the  soughing  breeze, 
The  sobbing,  wuthering  wind;  and  well  it  told 
What  angel  stood  beside  me.     Shuddering, 
I  drew  my  hand  from  off  the  icy  brow 
Where  it  had  laid  itself  so  lovingly, 
And  bowed  my  head  upon  my  clasped  hands, 
Weeping  such  quiet  tears  as  soothe  the  heart, 
And  leave  no  death  behind.     Yet  was  my  grief 
Most  certain  and  most  deep;  for  I  had  lost 
The  only  thing  I  loved,  and  knew  too  well 
The  meaning  of  that  saddest  word  "  Alone." 

A  peal  of  bells  rang  out  the  midnight  hour. 
And,  as  their  silver  chiming  died  away, 
Over  the  hill-tops  rose  the  clear,  cold  moon. 
Its  pallid  rays  lit  up  my  brother's  brow, 
And  on  that  face,  so  beautiful  in  death, 
I  saw  the  smile  all  holy  and  serene,  — 
The  smile  that  never  living  features  wear ! 
It  hushed  my  grief  and  unavailing  tears; 
And,  as  I  watched  beside,  I  heard  the  night, 
With  all  its  solemn  voices,  gathering  round, 
Wooing  rny  soul  from  all  its  saddening  thoughts 


HE  GIN  A.  39 

With  whisperings  of  reunion  in  a  land 

That  hath  no  graves,  of  hope  the  fatal  bourn, 

O'er  which  young,  loving  hearts  may  break  and  die; 

And  I  grew  calm  and  still. 

There  fell  a  step 

On  the  brown,  crisped  grass,  so  slow  —  so  slow  — 
As  though  it  kept  true  time  unto  a  heart 
Whose  pulse  was  weary  with  its  load  of  woe ; 
And  yet  so  firm  as  if  the  soul  had  strength 
To  bear  its  burthen  bravely,  hopefully ! 
I  looked  up,  and  met  the  steady  gaze 
Of  earnest  eyes,  —  such  eyes  as  read  men's  thoughts, 
Yet  tell  no  secrets,  and  are  faithful  still. 
I  met  their  gaze,  so  solemn,  questioning, 
With  the  brief  words,  "My  brother,  he  is  dead." 

Gently  he  spake  to  me,  with  soothing  words 
Stealing  into  my  heart  like  a  sweet  strain 
Of  softest  music. 

Leon.  GOD  comfort  thee,  poor  child ! 

Thou  art  so  young  for  such  a  grief  as  this. 
Yet  thine  is  no  lone  fate.     It  comes  to  all,  — 
This  doom  to  see  fair  flowers  perishing 
And  passing  from  our  sight ;  yet  to  live  on, 
As  though  these  things  were  not,  and  did  not  leave 
Their  impress  on  our  lives.     Gentle  maiden, 
How  called  ye  him  who  lieth  there  so  still  ? 

Eegina.    Eugonais. 

Leon.  The  minstrel  of  my  race ! 

The  tendril  frail,  that  still,  when  sterner  men 
Disowned,  betrayed,  did  cling  so  faithfully 
Unto  our  fallen  fortunes,  — hath  he  gone, 
Brave  heart  —  true  soul  —  unto  the  silent  land, 
Leaving  the  young  oak  on  the  desert  plain 
Alone  to  battle  with  the  storm  and  blast? 
He  was  my  foster-brother,  and  his  heart 
So  strong  and  pure  in  its  unselfish  zeal 
No  time  could  teach  it  falsehood,  and  no  art 
Debase  its  native  gold  with  foul  alloy 
Of  meaner  metals.     And  this  noble  soul, 
This  gentle  heart,  "  sans  peur  et  sans  reproche," 
Hath  gone  before  me  o'er  the  breezeless  sea. 
May  I  but  meet  him  on  the  further  shore, 
Where  he  is  resting  now !     But  thou,  poor  child, 
With  thy  so  quivering  lip  and  pallid  brow, 


40  REGINA. 

Where  dwellest  thou  ?    For  the  night  wanes  to  morn, 
And  thou  art  all  too  frail  to  linger  here. 
Whither  shall  I  lead  thee? 

Reyina.  Dost  see  yon  palace, 

With  its  terraced  walks  and  shady  arbors, 
And  the  one  fountain  sparkling  in  the  midst? 
There,  where  the  moonbeams  fall  so  softly  now? 

Leon.    Is  it  there  thou  hast  thy  dwelling?  Then  I  know 
What  name  thou  bearest,  lady;  and  thy  home 
Doth  shelter  one  who  for  long  years  hath  been 
My  dark  and  secret  foe.     Yet  "can  it  be 
His  blood  flows  in  thy  veins?    Thou  dost  not  move 
With  the  cold,  haughty  tread  of  those  who  claim 
Near  kindred  to  that  house ;  and  in  thy  voice 
There  is  no  sounding  of  their  mother-tongue. 
Thou  dost  not  bear  their  name  ? 

Regina.  Kind  stranger,  no ! 

They  hold  me  captive  in  their  golden  cage; 
And  I  am  but  an  alien  to  their  race, 
An  exile  in  their  halls.     Far,  far  away, 
Towards  the  region  of  the  setting  sun 
Doth  lie  my  native  valley ;  and  the  name 
I  bore  in  happier  hours  is  mine  still, 
And  I  am  called  Regina  here. 

Leon.  Lady, 

Forgive  the  stranger  that  he  knew  thee  not, 
And  spake  perchance  too  roughly.    I  have  been 
So  long  a  rover  on  the  tossing  deep, 
That  it  hath  taught  my  voice  a  ruder  note 
Than  greets  thee  from  the  smooth-lipped  courtier  throng. 
I  saw  thee  once.     The  rosy-cheeked  morn 
Smiled  gladly  on  the  sea,  and  thou  didst  sit 
Beside  the  sun-touched  shore,  while  my  bark  slept 
Full  softly  on  the  wave ;  and  I,  alone, 
Was  standing  on  its  prow.     I  saw  thee  then, 
And  felt  —  no  matter  what !     Is  this  thy  home  ? 
Lady,  thy  brother's  dust  shall  have  from  me 
Such  rites  and  homage  as  all  true  hearts  claim 
From  our  humanity. 

Regina.  A  moment  yet. 

Fain  would  I  follow  that  beloved  dust 
Unto  its  silent  home ;  but  watchful  eyes 
Will  be  upon  my  steps.    I  cannot  break, 


RE  GIN  A.  41 

As  once  this  night,  through  sentinel  and  ward, 
To  wander  where  I  will ;  and  yet  —  and  yet  — 
When  that  fair  form  is  borne  unto  its  rest, 
I  must  and  will  be  there. 

Leon.  And  so  thou  shalt ! 

They  shall  not  bar  thy  will  by  open  force, 
Nor  yet  by  secret  guile,  if  thou  rely 
On  ray  sure  promise,  and  wilt  meet  me  here 
When  the  night  stealeth  o'er  the  morrow's  eve. 
And  yet,  not  here,  but  where  he  lieth  now  : 
Eor  none  will  follow  there  !     The  place  is  cursed 
By  the  dark  memory  of  a  fearful  crime. 
But  fear  thou  not.     The  moon  will  light  the  dark ; 
And,  trust  me,  lady,  I  will  guard  thee  well. 


Night  came,  and  with  it  came  the  weary  rain, 
The  drear  and  sobbing  storm.     Yet  went  I  forth, 
With  stillest  footsteps  gliding  through  the  dark, 
But  fearless,  as  had  ever  been  my  wont. 
I  was  no  trembler.    Never  had  my  heart 
Known  the  quick  throbbing  that  doth  stifle  breath 
And  soundeth  loud  like  the  dull  beat  of  drums 
Heard  through  the  quiet  night.     Yet,  as  I  passed 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the'fir-trees  dark, 
And  heard  their  long  leaves  whispering  as  of  yore, 
I  almost  paused  to  listen,  as  in  dread 
Of  what  might  be  before.     The  moment's  thought 
But  added  wings  unto  my  lingering  feet, 
And  I  sped  on,  till  sorrowing  I  stood 
Within  the  shelter  of  the  saine  sad  tree, 
Where  I  had  left  my  brother  slumbering. 

He  was  not  there !     Only  a  silent  void  — 
Only  the  stillest  shadow  greeted  me  ! 
Irresolute  I  stood,  while  through  the  leaves 
The  rain-drops  filtered  wearily  —  wearily. 
A  moment,  and  a  voice  spake  in  mine  ear, 
"  Lady,  we  wait  for  thee."    I  turned  quick, 
For  well  I  knew  the  voice  of  yestere'en, 
And  gave  my  hand,  and  followed  where  he  led. 
But  ever  as  we  went,  the  wind's  dull  moan 
Came  sobbing  round  us,  and  our  hearts  grew  still 
And  very  sorrowful.     Some  slowest  steps 
Did  bring  us  to  the  green  and  sedgy  marge 
Where  the  wild  river  flowed  most  dreamily; 
And  there,  on  whitest  bier,  all  wreathed  with  flowers, 


42  RE  GIN  A. 

Two  veiled  forms  wore  lying,  robed  and  crowned 
As  for  a  bridal;  but  no  earthly  one, 
For  the  pale  likeness  of  a  parted  soul 
Looked  coldly  from  each  brow. 

All  words  were  said  — 
All  fitting  rites  were  o'er — and  calmly,  we, 
Unto  the  keeping  of  our  mother  Earth 
Did  yield  our  parted  treasures,  as  in  trust 
Until  that  day  when  all  shall  meet  again, 
And  earth  and  sea  have  never  more  a  grave  I 

"We  count  not  moments,  in  this  life  of  ours 
As  parts  of  time,  but  only  as  they  leave 
Some  deeper  impress  on  the  heart  or  brain. 
And  so  the  days  that  went  between  that  grave 
And  the  first  after  dreaming  of  my  life 
Are  less  than  nothing  in  this  retrospect, 
And  died  from  out  my  thought,  for  that  they  had 
No  place  in  memory. 

One  winter  morn  — 

The  snow  lay  deep  on  every  threshold  stone, 
And  the  trees  glittered  in  the  sun's  clear  rays 
As  every  branch  were  strewed  with  diamond  dust 
I  sat  alone,  slow  poring  o'er  a  tome 
That  I  had  rescued  from  the  dust  of  years. 
It  was  the  saddest  book,  wrought  in  a  brain 
That  never  saw  the  fruit  of  its  vain  toil, 
But  perished  immaturely.     Even  now 
Through  all  the  turmoil  of  uncounted  years 
An  echo  from  its  leaves  comes  to  my  soul, 
And  I  hear  its  voice  full  slowly  chanting 
A  measure  like  to  this  :  — 

"  What  matter  if  the  dust  we  blindly  tread 
Was  once  instinct  with  life,  and  moved  the  earth 
In  likeness  of  ourselves,  and  linked  itself 
To  beauty  and  to  bloom ;  and  left  a  name 
For  some  few  years  to  garner,  then  to  die 
Without  a  record  of  its  well-earned  fame 
To  tell  the  world  how  from  its  circles  wide 
A  noble  soul  had  passed !     What  if  this  be  ? 
Little  it  touches  us ;  since  years  will  come 
When  o'er  our  silent  hearts,  all  carelessly, 
Will  fall  the  footsteps  of  a  future  race. 
As  all  unconscious  they  that  their  swift  tread 
Is  on  our  crumbling  ashes,  as  are  we 
In  this  our  busy  life,  that  evermore 
Around  us  and  beneath  us  lie  the  wrecks 


REGINA.  43 

Of  a  forgotten  and  a  buried  Past. 

But  from  these  wrecks,  unto  the  prescient  soul, 

In  stillest  whispers  cometh  '  resurgam.' 

And  as  from  burials  of  ages  gone 

The  long  entombed  cities  of  the  East 

Rose  up,  dim  phantoms  of  their  golden  prime 

To  greet  some  bold  son  of  the  present  day, 

Rewarding  thus  his  long  and  patient  search;   - 

So  shall  the  dead  from  their  still  cities  rise, 

And  glide,  pale  shadows  of  their  former  selves 

In  our  mind-pictures  of  their  passed  days. 

But  only  rise,  silent  to  sink  again 

To  their  forgotten  graves !  "  — 

"  Well  do  we  know 

That  the  dry  dustings  of  a  thousand  years 
Are  lying  thick  upon  their  old  renown. 
Yet  shall  a  breath,  from  lips  all  touched  with  fire, 
Far  to  the  free  winds  scatter  every  atom, 
Till  the  pale  shapes  of  a  diluvian  race 
Rise  up  majestic  from  their  slumber  long, 
Called  thence  by  genius'  magic  spell,  and  walk 
Through  the  old  temples  we  have  raised  for  them 
In  our  imaginings,  as  if  they  were 
But  things  of  yesterday."  — 

"  I  mind  me  well. 

How  in  my  frequent  poring  over  books, 
I  read  of  one  whose  conquering  eagles  flew 
From  the  hot  desert  to  the  bitter  frost, 
Yet  never  rested  till  the  midnight  looked 
Down  on  a  sea  of  fire ;  and  then  they  drooped 
Never  to  soar  again !     And  how  fared  he 
Who  led  them  on  to  victory  and  fame  ? 
He  died,  an  exile  on  a  distant  shore ; 
And  the  wild  moan  of  waters  was  the  dirge 
That  sang  him  to  his  rest.     Earth  never  saw 
A  man  like  unto  him,  and  yet  his  name 
Has  died  from  out  the  memory  of  the  world ; 
And  but  some  legends  old  keep  record  brief 
Of  that  far-reaching  life  and  lowly  grave !  "  — 

I  turned  the  page,  but  still  more  sad  the  strain ; 
As  if,  the  while  the  poet  traced  the  words 
His  own  heart-pulsings  echoed  every  line ; 
But  ere  I  read,  a  shadow  crossed  the  brook, 
A  shadow  that  I  knew  —  it  might  be,  loved. 
'Twas  his  —the  gentle  stranger —  by  whose  side 
I  stood  all  weeping,  when  to  earth  we  gave 
The  form  of  my  young  brother.     Silently 


44  EEGINA. 

I  placed  within  his  hands  the  mournful  page 
Aiid  bade  him  read  to  me. 

—  "  To  wait  and  hope !    It  is  a  weary  task 
When  the  young,  fiery  spirit  fain  would  rush 
Exultant  to  the  goal !     To  wait  —  to  wait,  — 
That  is  a  lesson  youth  but  rarely  learns, 
And  never. willingly.     There  is  a  grave 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  a  mountain  cliff,  — 
A  quiet  grave,  —  and  he  who  lieth  there 
Did  wear  that  bitter  lesson  on  his  heart ; 

And  watched,  in  meekest  patience,  through  long  years, 

Waiting  the  dawning  of  a  most  sweet  hope 

To  which  his  youth  was  consecrate.     But  days 

Went  slowly,  slowly  by ;  and  the  fair  bud 

So  fondly  cherished  by  that  jealous  heart, 

Grew  never  into  leaf  while  one  warm  pulse 

Was  throbbing  in  his  veins.    As  through  the  night 

Some  tender  plant  will  rear  its  drooping  head, 

And  greet  the  morning  with  a  perfect  flower, 

So  from  the  ashes  of  that  silent  heart 

An  after  age  did  form  the  consummate  flower,  — 

The  reverent  love  that  clingeth  round  his  name, 

For  which  he  lived,  but  did  not  die,  in  vain."  — 

—  "  Pour  out  upon  the  dry  and  thirsty  sand 
Fresh  life-drops  from  thy  heart,  and  dream  the  while 
They  color  all  the  earth !     The  next  hour's  rain 
Will  blot  the  red  stains  out,  and  leave  no  sign 

To  tell  where  late  such  dark  oblation  fell. 

Is  it  not  so  with  our  fond  hope  of  Fame? 

Do  we  not  fling  upon  its  thousand  steps 

The  gems  of  mind,  —  the  aloe-blooms  of  thought,  — 

And  the  wild  breathings  of  the  poet-lore 

With  its  frail  passion-flowers?    Do  we  not  pour 

Upon  the  ashes  of  Fame's  altar-fires 

Pale  beads  of  dew  from  pale  brows  gathered  slow ; 

And  crimson  drops,  wrung  from  the  tortured  heart 

To  bear  o'er  earth  its  seed,  and  through  all  time 

Its  heritage  of  fame  ?    Vainly  they  flow, 

Those  crimson  drops ;  vainly  it  falls,  that  dew ; 

For  the  dry  dust  on  life's  arena  flung 

Drinks  the  poor  wasted  offering,  so  to  leave 

No  witness  there.    Or  the  hot  rain  of  tears 

Down-falling  on  some  lone,  untimely  grave 

Doth  wash  the  record  out  as  silently, 

And  what  remains  to  us?    A  quiet  spot, 

Wherein  we  rest,  forgetting  all  our  dreams. 


HEG1XA.  45 

For  the  dead  dream  not;  neither  do  they  hear 

The  busy  turmoil  closing  round  the  scene 

Whence  they  have  been  removed.     And  for  this  death 

Through  perished  hopes  —  and  for  this  noteless  grave, 

We  make  our  youth  a  desert,  and  our  prime 

A  ceaseless  struggle  'gainst  that  darkest  tide, 

The  ebbing  tide  of  life;  to  find  ourselves 

Stranded  at  last,  and  all  our  fair  hopes  wrecked 

Upon  an  opening  grave.     Yet  it  may  chance 

That  for  a  passing  time  our  name  may  rest 

Upon  the  world's  cold  lips,  and  sweetest  praise 

Thrill  to  our  yearning  hearts.     Earth's  gifted  ones 

May  yield  to  us  the  hand  of  fellowship, 

And  call  us  brothers ;  while  the  vassal  world 

Doth  greet  us  with  a  triumph.    But  the  boon 

Long  sought,  long  waited  for,  is  as  the  fruit 

That  grew  in  Hades,  —  tempting  fair  without, 

Within  but  ashes  found,  and  bitterness. 

The  wreath  we  strove  to  bind  upon  our  brows 

Is  resting  there ;  but  it  hath  sharpest  thorns, 

And  they  pierce  deep;  mocking  our  throes  of  pain 

With  words  like  unto  these  :    '  Ye  won  the  crown ; 

Now  wear  it !  though  its  weight  press  on  your  brain, 

And  though  it  woundeth  sore.     To  win  that  prize 

Ye  made  your  hearts  give  up  their  precious  things, 

And  laid  their  secrets  bare,  and  reft  your  souls 

Of  all  their  hidden  jewels.     Now  the  world 

Hath  won  them  from  your  keeping,  and  they  are 

Your  very  own  no  more ! '  — 

«  What  if  the  fame 

Come  never  in  our  lives,  and  only  light 
With  the  far-spreading  splendor  of  its  beams 
The  silent  halls  of  Death !     'Tis  worthless,  then, 
For  the  closed  eyes  see  not  that  shining  light; 
And  the  dull  ear  of  dust  cloth  nothing  hear. 
And  yet  not  worthless  all,  this  after-fame ; 
Since  Death  would  find  us  calm  and  all  resigned, 
Did  we  but  know  that  on  our  graves  would  rest 
That  after-smile  of  fame !  " 

Leon.  This  pleases  you? 

It  is  by  far  too  sad  a  strain  for  me, 
And  chimes  not  well  with  such  rude  tones  as  mine. 
So,  by  your  fair  leave,  I'll  read  no  further. 

Eegina.    Then  sing  to  me.     The  cloud  is  on  my  soul, 
And  I  am  dull  to-night. 


46  REG1NA. 

Leon.  Then  you  shall  hear 

Some  most  rare  music.     I  have  such  a  voice! 
My  comrades  say  its  melody  was  caught 
From  ocean  in  its  ire,  or  from  the  winds, 
That  sing  like  trumpets  through  the  shrouds  at  night. 
Nay,  you  shall  hear  it !     Seldom  gentle  ears 
Are  greeted  with  such  music  I 

SONG. 

"  The  early  dawn  was  breaking 

On  the  sunny  hills  of  Spain, 
And  the  morning  wind  was  shaking 

The  dew-drops  clown  again ; 
But  the  sun's  first  rays  were  glancing 

Where  an  army  on  its  way 
—  The  light  on  gay  plumes  dancing  — 

Sang  aye  '  viva  el  rey  ! ' 

"  There  was  mourning  heard  at  even, 

There  was  deep,  triumphal  glee, 
For  the  dead  who  went  to  heaven ; 

For  the  glorious  victory ! 
But  the  foe,  while  dastard  flying, 

Learnt  onr  watchword  well  that  day : 
For  our  living  and  our  dying 

Sang  aye  '  viva  el  rey  ! ' 

"And  the  future,  too,  shall  hear  it, 

Though  they've  hushed  its  music  long; 
And  our  foes  shall  learn  to  fear  it 

When  it  bursteth  into  song. 
From  our  old  ancestral  towers 

Shall  the  silence  pass  away, 
And  we'll  hail  far  brighter  hours 

With  the  song  « viva  el  rey  I ' 

"  From  the  dust  where  hope  hath  slumbered, 

Lo!  she  riseth  once  again, 
For  the  days  of  doom  are  numbered, 

And  forgotten  is  our  chain. 
Through  the  din  of  corning  battle, 

When  the  smoke  shall  darken  day,  — 
Through  war's  sharp,  continuous  rattle, 

Comes  the  song  ' viva  el  rey  ! '" 

So  he  sang ; 


So  he  sang ; 

And  evermore,  around  me,  and  beneath 
Choral  voices  echoed  •'  viva  el  rey  !" 


REG1NA.  47 

There  came  a  rush  of  quick  and  hurried  feet, 
And  through  the  arched  portals  of  the  hall 
Swept  the  poor  hirelings  of  their  master's  will; 
Intent  on  bearing  to  a  secret  doom 
The  daring  singer ;  but  they  found  him  not. 
He  passed,  — I  know  not  how,  —  but  he  was  gone, 
And  those  poor  slaves  dreamed  not  of  questioning  me. 
And  so  they  turned  to  go ;  but,  as  they  went, 
Once  more  the  mocking  chorus  echoed  back 
The  chant,  "  viva  el  rey  I  " 

Words  have  I  none 

To  tell  how  from  each  pale,  awe-stricken  face 
The  secret  dread  looked  out.     They  dared  not  speak, 
And  shuddering  glided  from  the  haunted  hall. 
I  knew  they  thought  it  was  no  living  voice 
That  in  the  fatal  covert  of  those  walls 
Dared  breathe  that  rebel  strain;  and  so  they  went; 
Fear,  like  a  touch  of  frost,  through  all  their  veins 
Diffusing  ice ;  and  on  their  ashen  lips 
Setting  the  seal  of  silence. 

Evening  came, 

And  Leon  sought  me  once  again.     He  stood 
Beside  the  open  casement,  where  the  light 
From  moonbeams  shining  on  a  field  of  snow 
Fell  softly  on  his  brow ;  and,  as  I  gazed 
On  the  stern  beauty  of  that  lighted  face, 
There  came  a  wistful  meaning  to  mine  eyes 
His  read  full  easily. 

Leon.  Lady,  the  moon 

That  shines  so  coldly  on  the  winter-earth 
Hath  looked  on  other  scenes  with  gentler  smile 
Than  she  doth  wear  to-night.     I've  seen  her  rays 
Stream  clown  through  orange-bowers  far  away, 
And  light  up  brows  whereon  a  tropic  sun 
Had  left  a  dusky  shadow.     I  have  seen 
This  same  cold  moon,  full-orbed,  and  red  as  blood, 
Kise  up  o'er  ocean's  dark  and  tossing  tide, 
In  its  deep  crimson  heralding  the  storm 
Yet  cradled  in  the  west.     And  one  calm  night 
She  walked  the  sky  like  some  pale  vestal  pure, 
All  marble  cold ;  while  'neath  her  chastest  beams 
Such  bitter  tears  were  falling.     But  her  smile 
Grew  never  less  serene,  and  only  seemed 
To  mock  the  grief  poured  out  upon  the  dust 
That  once  had  been  a  mother !     I  have  been 
For  some  brief  years  a  rover  on  the  deep ; 
And  still  through  all  my  dreamiugs  goes  the  moan 


48  REGIXA. 

Of  never-resting  waters,  and  I  hear 

The  same  wild  music  sounding  on  mine  ears 

As  made  my  youth's  first  joyance.     Even  now 

My  heart  is  thirsting  for  the  trumpet  tones 

Of  ocean  in  its  strife.     But  Fate  hath  cast 

My  lot  for  other  calling ;  and  I  wait 

The  coming  hour  when  all  the  world  shall  know 

How  Leon  the  Rover  fought  for  vengeance, 

And  won  the  freedom  of  his  native  land ! 

Ay,  lady,  even  so !  Your  paling  cheek 

Doth  show  my  name  no  stranger  to  your  ears, 

And  beareth  witness  how  they  spoke  of  me. 

But  false  the  tale,  and  never  friend  that  told  it. 

I  know  they  called  me  "  traitor,"  "  infidel  "  — 

And  worse  than  these,  if  darker  names  there  be. 

But  hear  me ;  and  if  then  you  still  should  shrink 

As  doubting  if  I  be  not  all  they  say, 

I  will  be  patient,  and  in  silence  go* 

Shutting  the  sunlight  from  my  lonely  path 

For  evermore ! 

Days  were  when  I  was  young 
And  very  proud ;  for  I,  so  noteless  now, 
Came  of  a  noble  race,  upon  whose  brows 
From  sire  to  son  in  long  unbroken  line 
A  kingly  crown  had  rested;  and  their  rule 
Was  strong,  yet  gentle,  too,  and  they  were  loved; 
For  the  leal  hearts  upon  a  thousand  hills 
Were  sword,  and  shield,  and  buckler  unto  them. 
But  Craft,  with  outward  garb  of  softest  smiles, 
Came  hither,  and,  like  a  thief  in  the  night, 
Did  rob  the  people  of  their  brightest  gems, 
Deluding  them  with  somewhat  semblant  things, 
That  shone  with  a  false  lustre.     From  our  faith, 
So  pure  and  hallowed  in  its  simple  creed, 
They  sought  to  win  us ;  and  with  deepest  guile 
Raised  phantoms  from  the  dust  of  ancient  graves 
Whereof  to  make  them  idols  for  the  shrines 
They  reared  by  thousands  in  our  once  free  homes. 
Woe  to  the  day  when  o'er  our  happy  land 
These  harpies  winged  their  way,  scattering  such  seed 
As  left  a  harvest  of  the  foulest  weeds 
For  after  reaping !     Ere  that  dark  day  came 
My  father  died,  and  rested  from  his  toil. 
He  sleepeth  well,  but  I  am  desolate. 
The  golden  circlet  crowning  once  his  brow 
Did  never  rest  on  mine ;  for  I  was  born 
Of  a  high  race  that  never  stooped  to  guile ; 
And  when  the  serpent-brood  who  so'well  wrought 


REGINA.  49 

The  viewless  fetters  binding  all  the  land, 
Would  have  me  wear  as  gift  from  their  false  hands 
The  crown  that  should  have  been  mine  own  of  right, 
I  spurned  their  mocking  proffer,  and  did  go 
From  out  their  loathed  presence,  as  doth  one 
Who  feels  he  is  an  exile  evermore. 
Alas  for  thee,  my  country !     Thou  dost  wear 
Upon  thy  bleeding  breast  and  marred  brow 
The  impress  of  all  scorn;  and  thou  dost  bend 
All  pale  and  shrinking,  when  thy  iron  heel 
Should  crush  the  dark  oppressor  in  the  dust ! 
A  day  shall  come,  when  for  this  bitter  shame 
There  shall  be  retribution  ;  when  the  land 
Shall  break,  like  morning,  from  its  trance  of  death, 
And  like  a  giant  from  his  long  sleep  waking- 
Assert  its  right  and  title  to  be  free ! 
But  for  our  Present  —  woe  that  it  should  be ! 
We  have  no  Present,  we,  save  that  which  lies 
In  the  pale  likeness  of  a  fettered  slave 
All  trembling  at  our  feet;  with  no  more  life 
Than  the  vile  modicum  winch  doth  suffice 
To  make  it  feel  the  lash,  but  not  to  turn 
And  rend  the  hand  that  so  dishonors  it! 
And  for  our  Past  —  we  dare  not  speak  of  it 
In  this  our  low  estate.     It  had  brave  deeds 
For  after  years  to  emulate,  —  high  themes 
Befitting  well  a  minstrel's  song  of  fire,  — 
Yet  have  they  died  from  out  the  thoughts  of  men, 
As  in  the  evening  of  the  tropic  clime 
The  sunlight  dies  from  off  the  glowing  earth, 
And  the  night  follows  quick  upon  the  clay, 
No  hour  of  dusk  between ! 

My  native  land ! 

That  ever  sons  of  thine  should  stoop  so  low 
As  wear  a  foreign  yoke  !     And  yet  —  and  yet  — 
They  were  a  noble  race ;  not  smooth  of  speech, 
As  are  these  courtier-priests,  but  free  and  bold, 
And  somewhat  rude  withal,  but  true  as  steel! 
What  are  they  now?    Slaves  that  have  borne  the  yoke 
And  bowed  beneath  it  servilely :  as  death 
Were  not  more  welcome  than  a  life  of  chains ! 
Yet  are  there  some  true  hearts  this  race  among, 
That  have  not  bent  to  the  usurping  sway 
Of  a  smooth  priesthood,  nor  bowed  the  knee 
At  altars  where  pale  shadows  sit  enthroned 
As  fittest  shapes  for  lowliest  worshipping. 
Ay,  yet  there  are  —  I  glory  in  the  truth !  — 
Some  high  and  noble  souls  who  keep  the  faith 


50  RE  GIN  A. 

Ill  which  our  fathers  died;  who  would  not  yield 
Its  glorious  promise  for  the  highest  meed 
Of  earthly  fame  or  honor ;  who  would  die 
The  slow  and  fearful  death  of  sacrifice 
Ere  to  the  idols  of  a  darker  creed, 
They  bent  submissive  kiiee ! 

I  see  a  stream, 

Its  sluggish  current  all  encrust  with  mould, 
Whereon  no  bark  may  sail  —  no  breezes  blow  — 
'Mid  whose  green  slime  and  floating  wreck  of  weeds 
A  nameless  race  slow  vegetate  and  die. 
It  hath  its  source  within  a  fenny  wild 
O'er  whose  dank  sods  the  mournful  cypress  sheds 
Its  wealth  of  shifting  shadows ;  while  the  oak, 
All  gnarled  and  stunted  in  the  ungenial  soil, 
Lets  fall  its  scanty  leaves  with  little  moan, 
Though  pining  in  its  hard,  distorted  heart 
For  the  fresh  mountain  air!     Lone  in  the  midst 
There  is  a  clump  of  dark  and  tangled  pines; 
And  at  their  roots  where  never  sunshine  came 
A  dull,  cold  fount  flowed  out  all  noiselessly, 
And  crept  through  shadow  and  through  darkness  on 
Beneath  its  pervious  shroud  of  yellow  moss; 
Emerging  from  its  still  and  secret  way 
Where  first  the  sullen  waters  of  the  stream 
Met  the  bright  eye  of  day,  but  smiled  not. 
And  as  that  stream,  all  dark  and  deadly  cold, 
Flows  on,  in  a  far  cavern's  sunless  gloom 
To  pass  from  mortal  sight,  so  doth  our  fate 
Move  on  remorseless  to  as  dark  a  close. 
Our  present  is  stagnation  —  and  our  pulse 
But  throbbeth  unto  death,  as  if  the  grave 
Were  only  bourn  to  which  our  sad  hopes  tend. 
So  they  die  early  —  wherefore  should  they  live  ? 

Eecjina.  Nay,  hope  thou  still !  For  from  the  burning  sand 
The  secret  spring  may  rise  o'er  desert-wastes 
To  spread  some  oasis  of  living  green; 
And,  from  the  ruins  of  a  buried  age 
Where  long  the  fox  hath  dwelt  —  the  bittern  cried  — 
Another  race  may  bid  fresh  cities  rise, 
Till  grace  and  beauty,  like  a  Phoenix,  spring 
From  the  funereal  ashes  of  the  past. 
What  wouldst  thou  more  ? 

Leon.  The  death  of  this  despair 

Fierce  gnawing  at  my  heart !     I  cannot  still 
Its  restless  fever.    Keen  are  its  pangs,  and  dure; 


HEGINA.  51 

And  evermore  it  crusheth  out  sweet  hope 

As  if  no  flower,  fair,  and  bright,  and  pure 

Might  bloom  where  it  held  sway.     Oh,  I  could  fling 

My  very  life  upon  one  only  die, 

If  but  the  shadow  of  that  venomed  shape 

Would  vanish  from  rny  heart !     It  sitteth  there 

Defiant,  flinging  over  cherished  dreams 

Its  veiling  darkness  and  funereal  pall 

Till  all  my  life  seems  blending  with  the  dust 

Of  cold  and  silent  graves ;  and  all  my  hope, 

So  buoyant  once,  dies  out  with  those  poor  dreams. 

Vain  hopes,  and  vainer  dreams !     I  loved  ye  once ; 

For  in  my  passionate  youth  I  dreamed  such  dreams 

As  never  feeling  of  more  sober  years 

Doth  shape  into  a  likeness  of  our  thought. 

Such  dreams  as  rounded  nothing  into  beauty; 

Pleasing  our  fancy  with  unreal  types 

Of  that  we  fondly  deemed  some  future  day, 

Pregnant  with  fate,  would  fashion  into  form 

Making  our  visions  more  substantial  seem. 

So  did  I  dream;  so  revelled  in  the  bliss 

That  seemed  to  come,  but  never  came  to  me. 

As  the  lone  traveller  o'er  burning  sands 

With  painful  pace  and  slow,  and  all  athirst 

Doth  see  the  waters  of  a  quiet  lake 

In  the  far  distance  shining,  and  doth  haste 

In  the  cool,  sparkling  wave  to  quench  his  thirst, 

But,  coming  nearer,  findeth  the  bright  stream 

Nought  but  a  mocking  mirage ;  so  youth's  dreams 

Show  fair  and  glowing  in  the  early  dawn 

Of  the  heart's  spring-time,  but  they  mock  us  too; 

And,  when  we  seek  to  grasp  them,  they  do  fade 

As  shadows,  and  our  path  lies  stretched  before 

All  parched  and  arid  'neath  a  burning  sky. 

Eegina.    Yet  have  thou  hope ;  for  life  is  often  long, 
And  in  the  years  to  come  fruition's  hour 
May  crown  the  hope  so  all  uncertain  now. 

Leon.    Lady,  thou  art  so  young.    Thou  hast  not  known 
As  yet  the  torture  of  a  dying  hope ; 
Or  the  wild  agony,  slow,  but  very  sure, 
Of  trust  whose  stay  proved  but  a  slender  reed, 
That  broke  with  leaning  on. 

Rcgina.  Hush  !  hush !  be  still ! 

What  if  some  hopes  have  fled,  some  visions  died? 
Life  has  a  thousand,  into  being  springing 


52  HE  GIN  A. 

With  but  a  thought  conceived ;  and  these  are  thine, 
Veiling  the  dead  dreams  that  have  passed  away 
As  flowers  blooming  on  a  quiet  grave 
Do  shut  the  dweller  in  that  narrow  spot 
Prom  the  cold  winds  of  earth. 

Leon.  How  wouldst  thou  weave 

The  tissue  of  a  dream? 

Rcgina.  With  such  bright  hues 

As  youth's  gay  fancy  tints  the  sky  withal; 
And  each  most  joyous  shape  of  earth  and  air 
Should  show  itself  upon  my  tapestry. 

Leon.    I,  too,  have  woven  dreams ;  but  aye  the  night 
Did  color  warp  and  woof.     While  sorrow,  care, 
And  many  another  shadow  of  the  world 
Shed  frost  on  every  flower  I  could  wreathe 
That  mournfullest  web  among.     I  have  walked 
Through  the  wild  mazes  of  a  tangled  wood 
Where  aye  the  shadows  deepened  as  I  passed, 
And  heard  no  voice  on  the  lone  silence  breaking, 
Save  where  the  pines,  a  dark  and  stately  race, 
Moaned  out  through  all  their  branches  as  the  wind 
Did  rock  them  to  and  fro.     I  was  young,  then, 
Light  of  heart,  and  thoughtless ;  and  as  I  walked 
I  plucked,  in  very  sportiveness  of  mood, 
The  pale  wood-flowers  that  grew  beside  the  path. 
My  quick  and  fevered  grasp  was  death  to  them ; 
And  they  fell,  wan  and  fainting,  from  my  hand, 
The  restless  moaning  of  the  tossing  pines 
Their  only  requiem.     So  with  the  dreams, 
Whose  golden  tissue  glowed  with  all  delights 
While  in  the  distance  shining.    They  were  bright, 
Preeminently  beautiful,  as  they  smiled 
From  out  the  future's  portal ;  but  the  hour 
That  hailed  them  present,  robbed  them  of  their  light, 
And  as  the  touch  of  a  too  curious  hand 
Doth  rub  the  down  from  off  the  gauzy  wings 
Of  some  gay  butterfly,  so  my  wild  heart, 
In  its  too  eager  haste,  did  crush  its  dreams, 
Even  in  the  time  when  they  did  seem 
The  nearest  to  fruition ;  and  they  died 
From  out  my  world  forever ! 

There  was  a  time 

In  my  lost  youth  when  Fame  sang  unto  me, 
Till  on  my  brow  its  glory  seemed  to  rest, 
And  its  wild  thirst  was  burning  in  my  veins. 


REGINA.  53 

I  saw  the  mighty  dead,  with  solemn  brows 
And  eyes  all  filled  with  a  changeless  light, 
Move  by  me ;  and  with  haught  and  daring  pride 
I  looked  unto  the  time  when  I  should  be,  — 
As  each  had  been  through  silent  centuries,  — 
A  star,  clear-shining  through  the  firmament. 
Such  was  the  thought,  that  in  my  fevered  youth 
Was  very  life  of  life ;  ever  tinting 
All  dreams  of  future  glory  with  its  hue. 
But  in  my  wiser  manhood  I  have  learned 
How  futile  was  the  dream.    Yet  was  it  long 
Ere  the  fond  hope  died  out;  and  even  now, 
Through  all  the  silence  of  forgotten  thoughts 
Its  siren  voice  sounds  in  the  distance,  singing 
The  same  sweet  song  that  charmed  me  of  yore. 
But  the  spell  is  broken ;  and  golden  Fame, 
That  did  but  mock  me  with  its  promise  fair, 
Hath  lost  its  beauty  of  eternity. 

Eegina.    Nay,  Leon,  must  tliou  share  my  sad  mood  too? 
Come,  cheer  thee !  for  the  night  hath  reached  its  noon, 
Aud  thou  must  wear  a  smile  ere  thou  canst  go 
From  out  these  halls.    Nay,  smile ;  thy  brow  should  have 
No  place  for  shadows,  but  be  bright  as  mine 
On  that  fair  morning  in  the  golden  spring 
When  first  I  saw  thee,  standing  on  the  prow 
Of  thine  own  bark.     Methinks  a  change  hath  swept 
Over  thy  spirit  since  I  saw  tliee  last. 

Leon.    Thou  speakest  truth.  The  change  is  written  here ; 
And  wouldst  thou  know  the  spell,  —  'tis  told  full  soon. 
Lady,  I  love  thee ! 

To  my  cheek  the  blush 

Rose  sudden,  deep,  and  my  wild  heart  stood  still, 
So  fierce  the  moment's  rapture.     On  my  brow 
A  kiss  pressed  lightly ;  a  few  murmured  words, 
Not  yet  forgotten,  —  linked  my  fate  to  his 
Through  life  and  death. 

Leon.  I  see  thee,  O  beloved ! 

Not  as  I  saw  thee  once,  when  thou  didst  wear 
An  aspect  mournful  unto  loving  eyes; 
For,  as  a  lily  drooping  on  its  stem, 
Thy  form  bent  earthwards  and  as  clouds 
Float  darkly  o'er  the  clear  midsummer  sky, 
So  shadows  of  thy  sorrow  seemed  to  glide 
O'er  thy  life's  heaven,  veiling  all  its  stars. 


54  REGINA. 

Then  tears  were  in  thine  eyes ;  and  for  the  dead,  — 
The  young,  true  heart  that  in  its  light  of  dawn, 
And  dream  of  fame,  grew  silent  at  thy  side,  — 
As  April  shower  on  the  soft  green  grass 
Did  fall  thy  heart's  sad,  quiet  rain  of  tears. 
I  saw  thee  then,  with  brow  so  wan  and  still, 
And  eyelids  drooping  so,  that  to  mine  eyes 
Thou  seem'dst  to  be  some  vision  of  the  grave. 
I  see  thee  now,  no  more  a  lily  pale, 
But  robed  in  beauty  as  the  queenly  rose, 
Joy's  radiance  on  thy  brow.     As  the  fair  morn 
Doth  grow  in  glory  with  the  rising  sun, 
So  o'er  thy  brow  where  sorrow's  shade  did  lie, 
The  sun  of  love  shines  crescent;  and  as  earth 
Doth  welcome  ave  the  sunburst  of  the  dawn, 
So  to  thy  heart,  "that  living  fount  of  light 
Comes  fresh  and  glorious,  steeping  all  thy  life, 
As  with  the  golden  splendors,  tropic  dyes, 
That  mark  the  tinting  of  some  northern  skies, 
When  the  clay  dieth  on  the  western  sea. 

Even  as  Leon  spoke,  the  rising  wind 
Flung  wide  the  lattice,  and  a  sound  came  in,  — 
The  stir  of  a  great  city,  and  the  rush 
Of  gathering  multitudes.     Through  the  air 
Streamed  myriad  signals  of  far-passing  strife, 
And  from  the  starry  dome,  on  high  uplift, 
Flamed  out  the  crimson  banner,  sign  of  war, 
And  nearing  battle-hour.     Swift  through  the  streets 
The  armed  cohorts  swept,  all  crimson-robed, 
And  bright  in  war's  yet  stainless  panoply. 
How  shall  the  morrow  find  them?    Low  in  death, 
Or  flushed  with  pride  of  hard- won  victory, 
Forgetful  of  the  dead  who  have  no  pride ! 

Clouds  had  swept  o'er  the  sky,  and  soon  the  rain 
Came  down  from  heaven  fast  and  silently, 
Wasting  the  pure  white  snow  with  magic  speed ; 
And  darkness  veiled  the  night,  but  could  not  still 
The  restless  feet  without.  "Through  all  the  sounds 
That  rose  beneath  me,  Leon's  voice  was  heard 
Breaking  a  moment  on  the  ceaseless  plash 
Of  falling  rain-drops,  murmuring  full  low, 
"  GOD'S  blessing  on  my  own,"  —  and  then  it  ceased. 
The  silence  gathered  found  rne,  cold  and  still, 
While  over  all  there  floated,  as  through  dusk 
Of  evening  glides  the  reflex  of  a  cloud, 
A  likeness  of  the  darkness  yet  more  dark. 


REGIXA.  55 

"  Where  art  thon,  Leon?  "  —  But  no  voice  replied. 
Only  the  ceaseless  tramp  from  out  the  streets,  — 
Only  the  plashing  of  the  weary  rain,  — 
Fell  on  my  thirsting  ears. 

From  out  the  dark, 

And  on  that  moment's  loneliness,  there  broke 
The  olden  chorus-song,  "  Viva  el  rey  !" 
With  startled  sense,  I  woke  from  my  sad  dream, 
And,  as  I  looked,  across  the  darkening  hall 
A  darker  shadow  passed ;  a  shapeless  thing, 
With  mantle  loose  and  flowing,  black  as  night 
When  storms  are  brewing,  and  as  fearful  still. 
I  strove  to  speak,  to  question  its  intent, 
But  utterance  was  denied  me,  and  the  words 
Fell  still-born  from  my  lips.     It  came,  and  went, 
Most  like  the  phantom  of  a  fevered  brain, 
And  left  me  lone  again,  dreaming  once  more 
Of  new-born  hope  and  joy. 

I  was  beloved ! 

Not  deepest  night  could  dim  the  quiet  light 
lu  which  henceforth  I  lived;  nor  fear,  nor  death, 
Steal  from  my  lips  the  sweetness  of  the  draught 
So  lately  drained.     It  seemed  to  my  heart 
As  if  the  thought  so  long  in  secret  nursed, 
Had  sprung  to  life  and  glory,  as  of  old 
Aladdin's  palace  rose,  reared  in  one  night 
By  the  all-potent  genii. 

Enough !     Enough ! 

The  morrow  came,  all  ushered  in  with  gloom; 
Never  a  ray  of  sunshine  for  the  earth, 
And  only  tears  for  me  !     Far  to  the  north 
The  tide  of  war  had  swept,  and  darkly  red ; 
Its  frozen  plains  were  covered  with  the  dead 
Who  there  had  striven  on  a  stricken  field. 
But  they  who  fought  against  the  church's  power 
Proved  victors  in  the  strife;  so  from  the  dome 
Where  it  had  floated  long  triumphantly, 
The  priestly  conclave  took  the  banner' down, 
And  flung  its  crimson  foldings  to  the  breeze 
That  sent  it  northward.     Thither  they,  too,  moved 
To  win  by  cunning  what  they  lost  in  war; 
Fit  heralds  of  the  mighty  armament 
That  followed  slow  upon  their  devious  way 
As  engine  of  their  will. 

I  saw  them  go,  — 

And  dared  to  smile,  as  in  recovered  freedom. 
Too  soon  the  mandate  came,  that  I  must  ioin 
Their  armed  host,  with  this  poor  bloom  of  mine 


56  REGINA. 

To  grace  their  triumph,  or  to  share  their  fall. 
I  went,  —  wrenching  apart  all  closest  ties 
That  late  had  bound  me  to  my  prison- walls ; 
And  wearing  on  my  brow  the  marble  veil 
That  shroudeth  ever  secret  agony. 
While  coldest  eyes,  and  lips  as  cut  from  stone, 
Told  nothing  of  the  warm  heart  crushed  beneath, 
And  breathed  no  word  of  all  the  secret  tears, 
The  very  wreck  of  dead  hopes  garnered  there ! 

Tempest  and  storm  were  heralds  of  our  way; 
And  the  cold  North  did  send  its  terrors  forth 
Daunting  the  boldest  hearts  of  all  our  train. 
The  sky  was  racked  with  clouds;  the  wind's  dull  moan 
Demoniac  scream  —  went  sounding  through  the  pines 
Whose  mournful  shapes  loomed  sadly  from  the  snow, 
Dark  sentinels  of  death !     Huge,  stern-browed  cliffs 
That  reared  their  giant  heads,  encrust  with  snow, 
Did  bar  our  onward  way.     Wild  torrents  rushed 
Athwart  our  path,  all  cold,  engirt  with  ice 
That  gave  no  resting  for  the  weary  foot, 
And  plunged  adown  deep  gulfs  where  darkness  held 
Its  undisputed  sway.     The  avalanche 
Fell  rude  and  sudden  from  the  topmost  crags 
Hurling  swift  doom  to  thousands  ;  yet  our  lords 
Still  urged  us  onward.    Little  did  they  care 
How  fared  the  common  herd,  so  that  their  rule 
Lost  never  one  poor  state.     ';  Onward !  onward ! 
Though  the  dead  fall  fast  as  the  autumn  leaves, 
And  Azrael  stand  before  !  " —  was  still  their  cry, 
And  onward  did  we  go !     But  all  the  land 
Was  up  in  arms.    The  very  earth  did  seem 
To  join  the  league  against  the  priestly  host, 
And  the  stern  Winter  laughed  in  coldest  scorn 
At  all  our  futile  efforts !     Inch  by  inch, 
The  invaders  pressed  towards  the  utmost  pole, 
But  found  a  desert,  bleak  and  desolate, 
With  never  a  living  thing ! 

Yet  once  —  once  — 

A  breath  of  human  life  did  cross  our  path. 
Our  way  was  o'er  that  very  battle-field 
Where  late  the  children  of  this  frozen  zone 
Stood  victors,  and  the  dead  lay  resting  there 
As  softly,  silently,  as  if  night  had  sealed 
Their  eyelids  unto  slumber.     Them  amid 
A  woman  sat,  pale-eyed,  with  saddest  brow, 
And  lips  all  white  and  wan.     Alone  she  sat; 
The  pale  night  gathering  as  a  cloud  o'erhead, 


RE  GIN  A.  57 

And  the  stars  shining  down  so  pitiless. 

Poor  child !  poor  child !     The  very  sky  did  frown 

Upon  her  wild  and  passionate  agony, 

And  the  cold  winds  went  moaning  past  her  ear ; 

They  could  not  say  "  Be  still !  "    Alone  she  sat, 

There  was  no  fond  heart  now  to  soothe  her  pain ; 

No  tender  hand  to  wipe  away  her  tears ; 

And  she  had  nothing,  for  the  grave  had  all !  — 

The  grave  that  rose  between  her  heart  and  hope, 

And  shut  the  sunshine  from  her  quiet  life !  — 

The  grave,  that  like  a  miser,  clutches  all 

And  giveth  nothing  back !     Yet  she  had  been 

A  joyous  creature ;  all  her  bounding  life 

Sent  out  in  motion,  light  as  any  bird's ; 

And  evermore,  far-ringing  on  the  air, 

Was  heard  her  laughter,  musical  and  clear; 

A  sunny  joyance  in  its  cadences 

That  made  your  heart  throb  quick,  as  if  its  pulse 

Had  caught  that  merry  chiming,  and  did  send 

As  gay  an  echo  back. "  The  battle-day 

Dawned  darkly  on  the  land,  and  her  young  hope 

Drooped  dying  in  her  heart.     Fate  gave  to  her 

A  bitter  cup,  all  drenched  with  saddest  tears. 

She  drained  it  to  the  dregs ;  and  then  hope  smiled  — 

The  hope  that  looketh  to  another  world  — 

But  only  that  she  died.     She  sleepeth  well. 

Not  deepest  wailing,  and  not  wildest  tears 

Can  wake  her  from  that  slumber;  and  her  heart 

With  all  its  weary  pulsings  is  as  still 

As  death  can  make  it.     Peace  unto  the  dead ! 

The  white  snow  drifteth  o'er  their  crimson  couch, 

And  the  pure  stars  do  watch  them,  as  with  eyes 

Of  pitying  angels. 

We  left  them  there 

And  hasting  went  on  our  unholy  quest. 
Unholy,  —  for  the  land  had  burst  its  chains, 
So  that  with  purer  rites,  more  simple  creed, 
Their  sons  might  worship  GOD.    To  bind  those  chains, 
So  lately  broken,  closer  on  the  land 
The  fiery  children  of  the  fervid  South 
Had  left  their  sunny  clime.     For  this  the  priests 
Had  donned  their  martial  robes,  and  sounded  forth 
The  clarion  of  war.    For  this  they  braved 
The  unknown  terrors  of  the  frozen  zone ; " 
And  left  pale  thousands  sleeping  by  the  way 
Who  never  woke  again.     Death  had  put  on 
His  kingliest  aspect,  and  where'er  they  went 
They  met  their  Master;  till  the  clear  cold  stars 


<  REGINA. 

Looked  only  down  on  graves !    Yet  pressed  they  on 

Until  the  silence  of  the  Polar  Sea 

Stretched  vast  and  lone  before.     A  dreary  void, 

With  only  the  smooth  and  the  glassy  ice,  — 

Only  the  drifted  snow.     High  over  all 

A  glittering  sky  arched  down  with  all  its  stars, 

Brilliant  exceedingly,  but  oh !  how  cold ! 

Torrent  and  tempest  they  had  braved  full  long, 
Nor  turned  aside  for  the  swift  avalanche ; 
But  that  still  sea,  so  dread  because  unknown, 
To  traverse  that,  how  might  their  skill  avail? 
But  "  Onward  !  "  was  the" cry.     They  might  not  pause ; 
And  so  the  march  went  on.     O'er  smoothest  ice 
.  The  crimson  cohorts  swept.     Enough  for  them 
Their  priests  did  lead  the  way.     They  followed  slow; 
The  chill  frost  stealing  o'er  their  weary  limbs ; 
And  day  by  day,  some  poor  hearts  fell  asleep 
Cradled  to  endless  slumber  on  that  sea. 
Quietly  they  rest;  but  in  far  hamlets 
Fond,  loving  hearts  do  watch  for  their  return. 
Vainly  they  watch,  —  for  the  dead  return  not, 
Neither  do  they  hear  in  their  so  silent  home 
Earth- voices  aiiy  more.     Alas  !  the  hearts 
That  must  be  wrung  with  anguish,  when  years  go 
Bringing  not  the  absent  back ! 

One  swift  day 

The  flush  of  morning  lit  up  mountain  cliffs 
Born  of  the  Erost-king's  breath,  and  struck  with  light 
As  with  a  shower  of  roses.     All  the  night  — 
The  long,  still  night  Polynia  calls  its  own  — 
Had  we  o'erpastjn  journeying  hitherward. 
Now  the  clay  dawned,  as  on  our  glad  eyes  flashed 
Polynia's  fair,  but  giant-guarded  soil. 
The  day  had  dawned;  but  to  the  unhappy  land 
Our  coming  was  as  night;  for  torture,  death, 
Did  follow  in  our  footsteps.     Stanch  the  hearts 
And  strong  the  souls  that  made  their  home  beside 
The  Sea  of  Shadows,  and  their  simple  faith 
Proved  mightier  than  the  terrors  of  the  Church. 
Vain  were  "its  tortures,  crushing  out  all  shape 
Of  sweet  humanity.     Vain  were  its  words 
Of  mocking  promise  too !     They  could  not  quench 
The  soul's 'deep  thirst  for  truth.     They  could  not  still 
Its  earnest  longings  for  a  purer  life ; 
Nor  stain  its  holier  prompting  with  the  taint 
Of  worship  offered  unto  sainted  names, 
Or  lower  still,  to  dust!     And  clay  by  day, 


REGINA.  59 

Life  torn  from  quivering  limbs  did  send  its  cry 
Accusing  unto  Heaven !     O  GOD  !  to  see 
What  fiends  may  wear  Religion's  sacred  garb, 
And  veil  beneath  its  holiness  such  deeds 
As  were  most  fitting  unto  darkest  hell ! 

I  saw  not  aught  of  this.     I  only  heard 
Of  silent  fields  made  populous  by  graves! 
They  barred  me  from  the  clay,  that  so  mine  eyes 
Might  see  no  shadow  of  the  passing  crime. 
They  could  not  chain  the  flight  of  freest  winds ; 
And  on  their  pinions,  borne  unto  my  cell, 
Came  saddest  wailings  from  bereaved  hearts, 
And  oft  the  sighs  of  death.     I  needed  not 
A  human  voice  to  tell  me  how  the  Church 
Doth  woo  rebellious  spirits  to  its  breast; 
And  well  I  knew,  how,  through  that  summer-time, 
Innocent  blood  was,  like  to  water,  shed. 
Wherefore?     So  that  within  the  Church's  pale 
The  souls  that  burst  its  fetters  should  return 
Obedient  slaves  once  more.     The  task  was  nought. 
Souls  yielded  on  the  rack  —  wrung  from  the  clay 
By  slowest  agony  —  were  not  less  free ! 
The  passing  hour  but  severed  every  chain, 
And  human  malice  was  the  sport  of  Death,  — 
Of  Death,  against  whose  silence  —  as  the  waves 
Beat  on  the  stubborn  rock  —  they  dared  to  breathe 
Their  vain  anathema.     On  the  quick  frame 
They  wreaked  their  utmost  vengeance ;  but  their  wrath 
Soon  stilled  the  scuseful  life,  and  gave  the  soul 
Eternal  freedom.     Joy  to  the  redeemed! 
The  holy  ones  who  trod  the  martyr-path 
Of  suffering  unto  GOD  !     Hail  to  that  band ! 
Not  one  had  turned  aside  for  offered  life ; 
Not  one  had  proved  apostate  in  the  hour 
Of  sharpest  agony.     Calmly  they  saw 
The  flaming  torcli  applied ;  and  their  freed  souls 
Went  up  through  fire  to  GOD  ! 

I  knew  all  this. 

My  pulse  was  hourly  throbbing  unto  pain 
I  could  not  still  nor  soothe.     Once  I  had  prayed 
For  ceasing  of  this  strife.     Once  I  avowed 
A  faith  like  unto  theirs  for  whom  I  prayed. 
They  spurned  me  as  a  thing  for  mocking  made, 
And  bade  me  pray  unto  my  prison-walls. 
I  never  stooped  unto  their  scorn  again. 
I  did  but  wait  the  coming  of  the  end; 
For  death  seemed  very  near ;  my  life  had  grown 


60  REGINA. 

So  aimless  and  so  still ! 

One  quiet  eve 

My  prison-doors  were  opened,  and  they  bade 
Me  wander  where  I  would.     Slowly  I  went, 
The  warm  air  touching  into  quicker  play 
My  languid  veins.     The  sun  that  never  set, 
But  only  circled  round  the  horizon 
Through  the  long  day  that  stretched  to  triad  months, 
With  rays  aslant,  did  tint  with  emerald 
The  wide  glaciers,  while,  far  away  and  near, 
The  slumberous  sea  lay  silent  and  serene, 
All  blue  and  smiling  as  the  heaven  above. 
Green,  sunny  slopes  rolled  downward  to  the  sea. 
And,  in  the  valleys,  herds  of  tiny  deer 
Did  crop  the  tender  herbage.     Fairy  trees 
Were  on  the  lull-sides  growing,  and  the  bloom 
Of  sweetest  summer  crowned  all  the  scene. 
It  was  so  fair  that  in  a  moment's  space 
My  thoughts  flowed  back  to  that  soft  southern  clime 
I  scarcely  hoped  in  life  to  see  again ; 
It  was  so  far  away. 

Stern  voices  broke 

The  enchantment  of  my  senses,  and  I  saw 
The  dark  tribunal  looming  at  my  side ; 
The  darker  yet  by  contrast  with  the  sky 
That  smiled  so  bright  above.    There  sat  the  judge, 
With  lips  compressed  and  locked  by  force  of  will. 
And  brow  dark  as  a  storm-cloud,  yet  all  flushed 
As  by  some  secret  pang.     Against  the  bar, 
Pale  as  a  shadow  from  the  spirit-land, 
A  shape  was  leaning,  on  whose  beaded  brow 
The  veins  like  cords  were  lying,  swollen  thus 
In  very  silentness  of  agony. 
This  palest  shape  was  in  its  morn  of  life, 
Beautiful  as  a  dream,  but  drenched  with  pain 
As  flowers  by  the  rain. 

Outspake  the  judge. 

With  accents  cold  and  sharp  as  edged  swords. 
—  "  The  Church  doth  proffer  pardon :  gives  thee  life, 
So  thou  but  kneel  repentant  at  her  feet, 
And  own  her  judgment  just.     'Twere  vainest  hope 
To  look  for  safety  elsewhere  than  with  her. 
And  soon  the  land,  so  late  rebellious  grown. 
Shall  new  allegiance  pay,  and  ye  be  free 
As  in  the  olden  time."  — 

—  "  Free !  when  the  yoke 
Must  lie  the  heavier  on  our  weary  necks ! 


RE  GIN  A.  61 

Free !  when  our  fathers'  faith  must  be  betrayed, 
Our  country  fettered,  and  our  GOD  denied! 
Call  you  this  freedom  ?    And  the  early  doom 
Your  word  hath  laid  on  warmest,  truest  hearts,  — 
Can  we  forget  the  loved  whom  ye  have  sent 
Through  torture  to  the  grave  ?     Will  no  voice  rise 
From  their  still  realms  to  haunt  our  paths  for  aye, 
If  we  blot  out  their  memory  from  our  lives  ? 
por  ye,  —  Wh0  shut  stern  Justice  from  her  seat,  — 
Not  wealth  of  tears,  nor  years  of  vain  remorse 
Shall  hush  remembrance  in  your  haunted  souls ! 
Go,  fling  the  dust  upon  a  thousand  hearts ; 
It  will  not  still  the  voice  that  from  their  graves 
Doth  rise,  accusing  ye  !     What  though  the  dead 
Come  never  back  to  tell  us  of  their  fate,  — 
Yet,  from  their  very  ashes,  rise  such  words 
As  waken  nations  from  their  slumbrous  calm; 
Till,  borne  on  lightning  wings  from  soul  to  soul, 
The  spell  like  magic  works,  and  all  the  land 
Exultant  springeth  from  its  lethargy !  "  — 

—  "  Dreamer ! "  — 

—  "  Am  I  a  dreamer?    Nay,  if  so, 
Then  are  these  fetters  nought  but  fantasy, 
These  weak  and  tortured  limbs  a  fearful  dream, 
And  all  my  visions  of  the  death  to  come 
As  baseless  as  your  daring  hope  of  heaven ! 
But,  fit  negation  of  your  scornful  word, 
Hear  you  the  shout  out-ringing  through  your  streets? 
A  people  up  in  arms  do  send  it  forth, 
Sounding  defiance  to  your  mailed  bands, 
Your  dull,  obedient  slaves.    And,  though  I  die, 
My  heart's  blood  drained  in  agony,  yet  I  go 
Rejoicing  on  my  way;  my  soul  upheld 
By  a  high  hope  you  know  not,  and  a  Love 
That  walketh  with  me  through  this  darkest  hour 
And  stilleth  all  my  fears.     O'GoD !  my  GOD  !  — 
So  take  me  to  thy  rest !  " 

His  brow  drooped  down, 
An  awful  shadow  creeping  o'er  its  snow, 
As  the  slow  pulse  was  dying  in  his  heart. 
Then  silence  fell  upon  him,  as  a  frost 
On  quiet  river,  and  his  life  went  out 
With  never-flickering  motion. 

"He  is  gone," 
Murmured  a  peasant  voice  in  deepest  tones. 


62  KEGINA. 

11  His  heart  will  never  throb  to  pain  again, 

And  his  poor  body  I  must  beg  of  you, 

To  give  it  fitting  rites  of  burial. 

You  will  not  wreak  your  vengeance  on  the  dust 

Of  your  once  brother?  "  — 

—  "  Call  him  not  brother; 
I  know  not  such  a  name !  and  for  this  thing 
Do  with  it  what  you  will ;  only  the  Church 
Doth  bar  the  faithless  from  sepulchral  rites 
And  rest  in  holy  ground.     It  goes  not  there ! 
Fling  it  to  the  waves,  if  so  you  will  it. 
They'll  not  refuse  a  grave,  though  they  may  make 
Rare  sport  with  the  poor  waif  !  "  — 

He  ceased,  frowning, 
And  so  he  turned  away ;  but,  as  he  went, 
A  form  stood  in  his  path,  —  a  childish  face 
Looked  questioning  in  his  own,  quick  reading  there 
The  things  that  had  been ;   and  with  keen  regard, 
Stealing  the  secrets  from  that  haughty  heart. 
—  "  Where  is  thy  brother?  "  spake  the  little  child, 
Laying  her  small  hand  on  his  nerveless  arm. 
"  Where  is  thy  brother?  —  he  who  once  did  brave 
The  unchained  fury  of  a  swollen  stream 
To  rescue  thee  from  death,  and  almost  gave 
His  life  as  price  for  thine.     His  loving  heart 
Was  thy  sure  shield  in  battle,  and  his  life, 
With  all  its  hopes,  was  so  bound  up  in  thine ! 
Yet  where  is  he  ?    For  all  his  earnest  love 
What  hast  thou  given  him?    Not  equal  love ; 
Rather  most  bitter  hate !     For  the  pure  faith 
Ye  both  had  gathered  from  a  mother's  lips 
He  gave  himself  to  torture  and  to  death. 
And  thou  stoodst  by,  and  coldly  looked  on  this ! 
Dost  hear?     He  loved  thee !     And  now,  never  more 
His  voice  may  come  to  thee  save  in  thy  dreams. 
A  word  from  thee  had  saved  him !     Now  the  dust 
Is  on  his  fair  hair  lying,  and  the  grave 
Hears  never  wail  of  sorrow.     To  thy  soul 
Remembrance  cling  as  some  sharp  scorpion  sting 
That  beareth  agony,  but  doth  not  kill ! 
And  through  the  night  a  voice  come  unto  thee, 
Asking,  in  clearest  accents  evermore, 
«  Where  is  the  brother  who  so  loved  thee ? '"  — 

Pale  grew  the  brow  that  had  so  sternly  frowned,  — 
The  strong  frame  shook  and  trembled  as  a  reed, — 
And  the  lips  they  spake  not,  —  the  cold  eyes  glazed 


REGINA.  63 

Into  cold  silence.    'Twas  but  a  moment, 

And  the  fierce  anger  clove  its  way  through  fear 

And  a  strange  sense  of  awe. 

—  "  Dost  question  me 

Of  the  poor  phantom  that  thou  call'st  my  brother? 
Go  ask  the  sea,  within  whose  secret  caves 
His  corse  will  soon  be  lying !     Ask  the  grave 
Of  all  that  lies  beyond  its  quiet  bounds, 
And  question  Death  where  the  warm  Life  did  go 
When  the  keen  torture  wrenched  it  from  the  frame 
Of  him  thou  call'st  my  brother!  question  these; 
They  have  some  claim  upon  the  senseless  dust. 
I  have  none !  "  — 

—  "  And  yet  he  was  thy  brother, ,r 
O  stern  and  hard  of  heart !    Thou  didst  not  love 
The  warm  true  heart  that  battled  by  thy  side ; 
Thou  dost  not  fear  the  dead !     Yet  from  the  deep 
Beneath  whose  mighty  wave  he  soon  shall  rest 
A  sound  shall  come  around  thy  couch  at  night 
To  wail  most  mournfully,  filling  thy  brain 
With  bitter  thoughts.     And  from  the  mightful  Past 
A  shape  like  his  shall  glide ;  with  tender  smiles 
And  murmurings  of  gentle  words  and  deeds 
To  rive  thy  very  soul  with  vain  remorse, 
And  vainest  yearnings  for  the  silent  heart 
Thy  word  hath  stilled  so  soon.     GOD  pity  thee ! 
Thou  hast  a  fearful  doom !  "  — 

And  the  child  ceased. 

The  soft  tears  trembling  in  her  full  dark  eyes ; 
But  he  passed  on,  in  all  his  spring  of  years, 
But  winter  of  the  heart ;  from  that  dark  day 
To  have  the  shadow  of  a  tortured  form 
Haunting  his  waking  and  his  sleeping  hours, 
Arid  resting  nevermore !     He  passed  on ; 
And  all  the  pageant  of  the  judgment-seat 
Did  seem  to  vanish  with  him.     But  the  child 
Did  linger  yet.     I  called  her  unto  me 
And  questioned  of  her  friends. 

—  "I  have  no  friends. 

They  left  me  long  ago,  and  yon  bright  heaven 
Is  all  their  dwelling  now.     I  may  not  see 
Their  faces  more  till  GOD  doth  call  me  home."  — 

Eegina.    Poor  child  !  poor  child !  I  read  within  thine  eyes 
—  So  full  of  meaning  in  theirspeechless  gaze  — 
The  thought  that  I  am  stern.    Thou  canst  not  pierce 
The  mask  that  time  hath  moulded,  not  yet  know 
How  throbs  the  poor  and  aching  heart  beneath. 


64  RE GIN A. 

Come  hither,  child.    Thou  hast  the  brow  and  eye 
All  clear  and  dark  of  mine  owii  distant  land, 
So  tell  me  of  thy  home. 

—  "It  is  not  here," 

The  child  replied,  —  "  not  here  where  evermore 
The  pale  frost  glitters  on  the  dwarfed  trees ; 
But  far  away ;  in  that  all  lovely  land 
Where  the  sun  shineth  softly,  and  the  sky 
Is  yet  more  blue,  more  tender  than  thine  eyes. 
I  know  a  song,  —  my  mother  taught  it  me,  — 
Wouldst  have  me  sing  it?  " 

Regina.  Ay,  sing  it,  my  child ! 

And  I  will  listen,  —  calling  buried  thoughts 
The  while  from  their  still  graves. 

THE  CHILD  SINGS. 

"  Where  the  skies  shine  ever  bluest,  and  the  glorious  sun 

looks  down 
In  his  deep  effulgent  radiance  from  a  heaven  without  a 

frown ; 
Where  the  day  it  passeth  dream-like,  and  the  hours  their 

pinions  fold 

As  the  sunset  poureth  over  earth  its  crimson  and  its  gold ; 
Where  the  night's  serenest  forehead,  as  an  angel's  brow 

is  starred, 

While  angels  o'er  its  holy  sleep,  seem  ever  keeping  guard : 
There  my  home,  in  all  its  beauty,  rises  slowly  unto  me, 
As  an  island  riseth  upward  to  the  mariner  at  sea. 

"Oh!  the  forest,  the  old  forest!  beneath  whose  shade  I 

strayed, 
Flinging  laughter  back  in  answer  to  the  echo  laughter 

made ; 

In  its  silence  of  past  centuries,  how  evermore  it  grew 
More  silent  and  more  beautiful  till  I  grew  silent  too. 
And  the  torrent  leaping  downward,  —  leaping  downward 

past  our  door,  — 
How  wild  and  thrilling  was  the  hymn  I  heard  amid  its 

roar ! 

But  I  loved  not  much  its  music,  though  it  ever  floated  near, 
For  the  rush  of  swollen  waters  sounded  harsh  unto  mine 

ear. 

"  Oh !   the  sweet,  the  blooming  flowers  that  around  my 

home  there  grew, 

From  off  whose  fairy  petals  the  morning  kissed  the  dew ! 
And, oh,  the  quiet  garden  where  the  orange-trees  were  seen 


RE GIN  A.  65 

With  their  golden  fruitage  gleaming  through  their  foliage 
dark  and  green, 

And  o'er  the  little  arbor  with  its  tracery  of  stone 

—  The  work  of  fairy  fingers  —  bloomed  roses,  many  a  one ; 

And  through  the  carved  trellis,  in  the  sunlight's  glowing 
sheen, 

The  purple  clusters  of  the  grape  hung  rich  and  full  be 
tween  ! 

"Where  the  wind  goes  ever  singing,  as  it  had  no  note  of 

grief, 
And  the  forest  knows  no  shading  of  the  sere  and  yellow 

leaf; 
There  my  home  is  softly  smiling  with  the  gentle  smile  of 

yore; 

And  I  —  my  heart  is  dying  —  I  shall  see  it  nevermore  ! 
Only  in  my  earnest  dreaming,  —  only  in  some  hour  of 

sleep,  — 
Do  I  tread  the  olden  pathways,  and  the  olden  footsteps 

keep. 

Only  then,  — alas !  I  waken  from  the  vision  all  too  soon 
But  to  see  the  ice-fields  glitter  'iieath  a  cold  and  glittering 

moon ! " 

So  sweet  had  been  the  song,  that  it  did  bring 

The  restless  music  of  a  torrent's  bound 

Close  to  mine  eager  ear,  till  my  thoughts  flowed 

Back  to  the  river  of  mine  early  days. 

I  woke  as  with  a  start.     'Tvvas  but  the  rush 

Of  hurried  footsteps  through  the  paved  street, 

And  the  wild  swell  of  voices,  eloquent 

With  all  that  teaches  unto  Power  fear. 

Hast  ever  heard  the  dash  of  angry  waves 

Upon  some  storm-swept  coast?    So  came  the  sound 

Of  those  fierce  voices  on  the  free  wind's  wing. 

In  their  guarded  walls  the  tyrants  trembled, 

For  well  they  knew  resistance  were  but  vain 

When  the  roused  anger  of  an  outraged  race 

Had  torn  asunder  all  the  bonds  of  fear, 

And  risen  up  insurgent. 

We  were  safe. 

No  arm  of  all  that  host  would  touch  the  life 
Of  woman  or  of  child ;  and  yet  I  wept. 
For  the  swift  thought  of  all  the  many  homes 
That  strife  must  darken  rushed  upon  my  soul, 
Clouding  it  with  tears.     Death  had  been  lying 
A  quiet  shadow  on  each  household  hearth ; 
But  those  who  slept  had  trod  the  martyr's  path, 
5 


bb  REGINA.  % 

And  on  each  mourner's  brow  a  strange  joy  smiled. 

Now  strife  had  gathered  o'er  the  fated  land 

And  closest  bonds  a  moment's  breath  must  break, 

Severed  by  death  upon  the  battle-field 

That  might  not  bring  them  victory.     Vain  tears, 

For  they  were  wasted !     GOD  stretched  out  his  hand, 

Hushing  to  silence  all  the  wrath  of  man, 

And  every  heart  grew  still ! 

What  of  the  child 

Who  paused  a  moment  on  my  line  of  life  ? 
Our  paths  crossed  nevermore.     In  that  same  night- 
A  wind  went  forth,  wandering  through  the  laud, 
Mild  as  a  zephyr,  but  it  breathed  death. 
GOD  sent  it,  gathering  thus  into  the  fold 
The  Shepherd's  chosen  flock;  and  then  they  said, 
The  little  child  went  home ! 

From  out  that  land, 
Dispeopled  all,  and  eloquent  of  death, 
The  invaders  fled.     Not  as  they  entered  in, 
A  mighty  host  whose  banners  met  the  breeze 
All  fearless  of  dishonor ;  but  as  those, 
Who,  few  in  number,  and  in  courage  weak, 
Do  call  the  night  and  darkness  to  their  aid, 
And  choose  the  coward's  part  of  flight  and  shame. 
And  I  went  with  them.     Death  came  not  to  me, 
Though  it  had  been  most  welcome  ;  and  my  way 
Turned  southward  once  again,  and  through  my  soul 
There  thrilled  the  hope  of  meeting  Leon  yet. 
Death  had  been  very  busy,  but  his  wing 
Might  have  passed  Leon  by.     So  I  lived  on,  — 
Upheld  by  that  one  hope. 

Our  little  band 

Moved  slowly  on,  beneath  a  sky  all  black, 
From  out  whose  deepest  shadow  flashed  the  stars, 
Blood-red  and  burning;  while  the  Frost-king  held 
Such  revels  all  around  us  as  might  tame 
The  proudest  spirit  into  abject  fear. 
Still  we  went  on ;  for  that  before  us  smiled 
The  hearts  that  best  did  love  us. 

One  calm  night 

I  lay  beside  the  watch-fire,  with  closed  lids 
That  veiled  no  slumber,  for  my  thoughts  were  sad 
And  would  not  yield  to  weariness  their  sway, 
Nor  vanish  into  dreams.     Above  my  head 
A  pine-tree  waved  its  branches  moaningly; 
And  at  my  feet,  but  far  below  my  couch, 
A  torrent  rushed  by,  with  such  a  song 
As  only  distance  briugeth  to  our  ear. 


TtEGlNA.  67 

Voices  broke  on  the  night,  scarce  startling  me. 
I  listened  dreamily,  as  oft  doth  one 
Who  thiriks  he  is  asleep,  yet  sleepeth  not. 

FIRST  VOICE. 

"  She  was  robed  most  royally,  as  an  eve 
Purpled  with  sunset ;  and  her  scornful  eyes 
Looked  down  upon  me  in  superbest  pride, 
Scathing  my  soul  with  light.     Yet  I  loved  her; 
Bowing  my  neck  beneath  her  haughty  smile, 
And  well  repaid  if  for  my  lowliness 
I  won  the  shadow  of  a  glance." 

SECOND  VOICE. 

"  Poor  slave ! 

And  thou  didst  think  to  win  her !     Why,  her  pride 
Doth  grasp  the  world  within  its  boundless  sweep, 
And  would  not  stoop  so  low,  e'en  in  its  dreams, 
As  mate  with  thee !     Content  thee  with  thy  lot. 
The  falcon's  wing  flies  far,  but  doth  not  soar 
As  the  eagle's  to  the  sun." 

FIRST  VOICE. 

"  Then  I  will  be 

E'en  as  the  eagle,  and  with  equal  force 
Soar  proudly  to  my  goal !     Oh  !  I  will  make 
The  very  time  my  slave,  and  through  the  wreck 
Of  war-tossed  nations  make  a  name  to  lay 
Its  laurels  at  her  feet.     She  shall  be  mine, 
If  I  do  peril  worlds  to  win  her !  " 

SECOND  VOICE. 

"Worlds! 

Nay ;  worlds  on  worlds  would  fail  to  bear  thee  there  1 
Her  heart  cloth  keep  still  vigils  o'er  a  grave ; 
And  aye  within  the  ramparts  of  her  pride 
There  sits  the  shape  of  one  pale  memory ; 
And  her  whole  being,  soul,  and  life, 
Are  only  true  to  that.     To  seek  some  star 
That  only  mocks  thee  with  its  far-off  light, 
Were  surer  proof  of  wisdom  than  to  pour 
Love  on  a  shrine  so  cold  and  dead  as  this !  " 

FIRST  VOICE. 

"  Then  farewell  hope,  and  welcome  be  despair! 
My  heart  is  but  a  grave  where  all  sweet  dreams 
Lie  early  buried,  as  are  frailest  flowers 


68  EEGINA. 

Beneath  some  late  spring  snow.     True  to  the  dust 

Thou  sayest  is  her  heart ;  and  mine  shall  be 

Yet  truer  to  its  love.    I  will  not  die 

Till  the  wide  world  doth  crown  me  with  its  fame ; 

So  that  her  lips  may  one  day  breathe  my  name 

As  one,  not  all  unworthy  of  such  love 

As  might  have  blessed  my  life,  had  her  heart  been 

Free  as  I  dared  to  hope  it !     O  sweet  hope ! 

Thou  liest  on  the  bleak  shore  of  my  life 

As  some  dead  mariner  on  the  cold  sands 

Of  ocean's  wildest  verge !  " 

I  heard  no  more, 

For  the  wild  storm-blast  swept  athwart  the  night 
Armed  with  wrath ;  and  the  old  stately  pines, 
Beneath  whose  shade  our  band  lay  slumbering, 
Bowed  their  dark  heads  unto  its  force,  and  fell 
Supinely  to  the  ground ;  never  again 
To  point  unto  the  sky.     Clouds,  dim  as  night, 
Rolled  up  the  zenith,  shutting  out  the  stars ; 
And  with  the  blast,  the  King  of  Terrors  swept 
All  grimly  on  his  way. 

I  bowed  my  head. 

Methought  the  terror  was  upon  my  soul, 
Claiming  its  ready  prey.    It  passed  me  by, 
To  silence  every  pulse  that  yestere'en 
Was  throbbing  unto  memories  of  home, 
And  thoughts  of  swift  return.    Vain  dreamings  all! 
The  word  "  return  "  was  blotted  from  their  lives ; 
And  they  lie  sleeping  on  a  foreign  soil, 
Dreaming  of  home  no  more !     Sadly  I  gazed 
Upon  the  stillest  hearts  that  slept  around, 
And  as  I  gazed  there  came  unto  my  soul 
A  feeling  of  unrest,  —  a  longing  wish 
To  tread  again  the  sunny  land  of  flowers. 
Perchance  their  beauty  might  assuage  the  pain 
Fierce  gnawing  at  my  heart;  and  so  I  went 
From  out  the  voiceless  presence  of  the  dead, 
Turning  my  footsteps  to  the  golden  South, 
Whose  sparkling  waters  knew  no  touch  of  ice. 
Too  long  my  home  had  been  amid  the  white 
And  stony  giants  on  Polynia's  shore ; 
And  I  was  weary  of  the  terror-shapes 
That  heralded  but  death,  and  filled  my  dreams 
With  darkness  and  despair. 

Slowly  —  slowly  — 

With  weariest  steps  I  trod  the  fated  way, 
As  one  who  journeys  on  a  dreaded  path 


REGINA.  69 

That  hath  no  turning  back.    Day  unto  day 

Did  tell  the  same  dull  tale  of  weariness 

That  knew  no  resting,  for  my  soul  asked  none. 

Rather  it  murmured  at  my  progress  slow, 

And  with  a  fevered  pulsing  questioned  aye, 

"  How  near  unto  the  goal?  "    Alas !  my  heart, 

If  but  thy  questioning  had  won  from  earth 

A  shadow  of  reply,  how  still,  how  cold, 

Had  been  thy  after-beatings !     Now  the  thirst 

Of  wildest  yearning,  and  of  hope  deferred 

Burns  quenchless  in  thy  veins;  and  all  life's  strength 

Seemed  slowly  ebbing  from  my  weary  frame ; 

For  I  have  borne  so  much  !     Yet  doth  my  soul 

Preserve  its  strong,  unconquered  energy, 

Bearing  me  up  with  true  and  steady  force, 

To  tread  the  homeward  path.     O  home,  sweet  home, 

That  smilest  where  the  sparkling  waters  play ! 

Thou  risest  to  my  vision,  soft  and  bright, 

With  such  a  glamour,  as  if  angel  eyes 

Were  looking  into  mine,  with  their  clear  light 

Scattering  afar  the  shadows  on  my  soul! 

0  home,  that  in  the  distance  waiteth  me, 
If  but  my  feet  were  winged  as  rny  thought 

1  might  be  with  thee  now !     "  O  pining  heart, 
Rest  quiet  still !     All  shall  be  thine  at  last, 

If  only  thou  have  patience  to  the  end, 
And  yield  not  to  despair."    So  spake  the  deep 
And  potent  oracle  of  rny  secret  hope  ; 
And  thereunto  I  listened  with  a  smile, 
And  went  upon  my  way,  so  weary  late, 
With  lightest  step,  as  one  who  garners  joy 
Unto  the  coming  day,  and  in  his  heart 
Hath  smiles  wherewith  to  crown  the  future. 

Morn, 

In  all  the  glory  of  its  first-born  smile, 
Moved  radiant  o'er  the  earth,  whose  garmenture 
Told  of  the  ripest  spring.     I  paused  awhile 
To  trace  upon  the  tablets  of  my  heart 
So  fair  a  picture ;  and  my  weary  eyes 
Were  fain  to  linger  on  the  quiet  dell, 
Whither  night  had  led  my  steps.    Wanderer 
Had  I  been  long,  and  'twas  foretaste  of  joy 
To  look  on  scene  so  calm  and  sweet  as  this ! 

A  fairy  cot,  with  ivy  curtained  in, 
A  murmuring  stream  that  rippled  past  the  door, 
A  stately  tree,  o'ershadowing  the  cot, 
And  some  few  flowers,  did  form  the  magic  spell 


70  n  EG IN A. 

That  bound  me  with  the  might  of  loveliness. 
Too  soon  the  glamour  faded ;  and  I  knew 
No  spot  so  fair,  but  sorrow  creepeth  there. 

I  heard  the  echo  of  a  weary  step, 
And,  turning,  saw  a  feeble,  shattered  man, 
Dragging  towards  the  fairy  cot  his  feet. 
His  face  was  wan,  and  in  his  darkened  eyes 
There  sat  the  shadow  that  aye  marketh  one 
Who  beareth  evil  tidings.     Swift  my  glance 
Was  on  the  cottage  bent;  and  a  girl  came 
Into  the  presence  of  the  glowing  morn. 
She  stood  within  the  porch,  with  keen  regard 
Watching  the  far-  oft'  pathway.     On  her  cheek 
The  pale  rose  trembled  ;  in  her  radiant  eyes 
Sat  joyous  expectation,  and  her  heart 
Was  beating  high  in  earnestness  of  hope. 

Who  cometh  yonder  o'er  the  short,  crisp  grass, 
Slowly  —  slowly  ?     No  messenger  of  joy 
Is  he  who  moveth  with  such  lagging  pace ; 
And  her  prophetic  heart  doth  feel  its  doom 
Ere  yet  the  words  are  spoken.     Hast  thou  seen 
A  lily  floating  on  some  swiftest  stream 
Down  to  the  soundless  sea?     Didst  watch  it  pass 
Into  the  distance  from  thy  earnest  eyes ; 
Feeling  the  while  it  went  but  to  its  grave, 
And  would  be  seen  no  more  ?     So  fled  her  hope 
Of  joy  in  life.     There  needed  no  vain  words 
To  tell  her  heart  that  on  his  fair  young  form 
The  silent  dust  was  lying.     One  long  look 
Upon  the  face  of  him  who  brought  the  tidings,  — 
One  upward  glance  to  heaven,  —  and  she  died. 
Now,  o'er  her  virgin  beauty  grows  the  grass, 
All  fresh  and  greenly,  as  if  never  heart 
Most  true  and  loving  rested  silent  there. 

Life  !  life !     Thou  hast  a  fragile  tenure  here. 
'Tis  but  a  thread  of  gossamer  that  doth  hold 
Thy  spirit  unto  earth;  and  one  poor  breath 
May  snap  that  frailest  band,  and  all  thy  pulse 
Be  still  for  evermore.     And  yet  we  count 
Upon  thy  length  of  days ;  and  weave  such  dreams 
As  only  years  can  ripen  into  fruit; 
Forgetting,  all  the  while,  that  every  throb 
Sent  from  the  busy  heart  is  so  much  time 
Lost  from  our  span  of  life.     We  think  not  so, 
Or  if  the  thought  should  come,  we  do  but  say, 


It  EG  IN  A.  71 

"  Some  may  die  young,  but  we  shall  have  long  years 
Wherein  to  make  our  dreams  reality."  — 
Blind  mortals  that  we  are !     One  onward  step    • 
Towards  the  goal  where  all  our  wishes  tend, 
Doth  bring  us  to  the  grave ;  and  all  our  dreams 
Shall  end,  as  we,  in  dust ! 

These  saddest  words 

Came  floating  through  my  brain,  as  I  stood  there, 
And  saw  dark  tidings  on  that  girlish  brow 
Set  the  cold  seal  of  death.     O  happy  one ! 
I  gave  thee  never  tears,  for  thou  wert  blest 
So  early  called  from  Earth.     In  thy  soul's  home 
Thou  dost  not  feel  the  woes  that  day  by  day 
Drain  blood  from  living  hearts ;  and  thou  art  free 
From  the  dread  yoke  of  Sin  that  cannot  dim 
The  glory  of  the  crown  that  marks  thee  now 
Redeemed  from  the  world ! 

O  Land  so  fair  I 

O  Shore  that  lies  beyond  the  waves  of  Death 
Whither  that  soul  hath  gone !  how  may  we  look 
Upon  thy  glorious  beauty  and  yet  live? 
How  in  our  idle  dreams  we  picture  thee 
Fairer  than  thousand  earths,  yet  come  not  nigh 
The  veriest  shadow  of  thy  loveliness ! 
O  Land  I  eye  hath  not  seen  thee  !  never  dream 
Of  poet-heart  yet  pictured  aught  so  bright! 
Only  when  our  poor  hearts  are  turned  to  dust, 
May  our  enfranchised  spirits  find  in  thee 
The  mansions  GOD  doth  give  to  his  beloved. 
Yet  to  our  fettered  fancy,  in  the  still 
And  solemn  watches  of  the  holy  night, 
There  floateth,  oftentimes,  a  seraph  song,  — 
A  psalm  of  strength,  —  and  we  go  forth  at  mom 
Comforted  and  sustained  by  a  deep  sense 
Of  GOD'S  abiding  presence.     Oh,  the  love 
That  links  eternity  with  this  frail  clay, 
And  turneth  not  away  for  all  the  sin 
Wherewith  we  stain  our  souls  !     How  poor,  how  mean, 
How  little  worth  in  his  all-sinless  eyes 
Must  our  vain  longings  be  !  and  yet  our  GOD, 
The  High  and  Holy  One  of  Israel, 
Watcheth  and  loveth  us  ! 

Back  to  the  earth, 

0  thoughts  of  mine  !  —  back  to  the  earth  again; 
Ye  are  not  free  from  its  cold  bondage  yet ; 
Life's  tale  is  not  yet  told. 

Silent  I  stood. 

1  had  seen  the  flower  perish,  heard  the  cry 


72  REGINA. 

Wrung  from  the  ashen  lips  of  that  pale  man, 

As  o'er  the  beauty  of  her  sunny  face 

Fell  the  gray  shade  of  death ;  and  then  I  moved 

Unto  the  cottage  porch,  and  laid  my  hand 

On  the  dead  maiden's  brow ;  and  with  wan  lips 

Did  murmur  o'er  such  soft  and  soothing  words 

As  stole  the  sting  from  his  poor,  sorrowing  heart, 

And  hushed  its  wail  of  grief.     Yet  still  the  words 

Came  frequent  from  his  lips,  and  thus  he  spake,  — 

Many  a  pause  between  : 

—  "  She  was  my  all,  — 

The  only  thing  that  loved  me,  — yet  the  grave 
Must  be  her  resting  now.     And  she  so  fair, 
So  loving,  all  the  pulses  of  her  heart 
Beat  but  in  answer  unto  his  and  mine; 
Her  lover's  and  her  brother's.     He  hath  gone 
Before  us  to  his  rest.     The  storm-wind  swept 
Athwart  our  quiet  slumber,  and  its  breath 
Laid  low  the  stately  pines  ;  and  where  they  fell, 
Beneath  their  darkest  pall,  some  gallant  hearts 
In  death  lie  sleeping,  crushed  out  of  life 
In  the  passing  of  a  moment.     I  am  here 
Of  all  that  martial  baud,  and  bannered  host 
The  only  living  one ;  and  my  poor  life 
Will  vanish  with  the  day,  and  with  the  sun 
Its  waning  lamp  die  out."  — 

Regina.  Hast  thou  no  friends  ? 

No  loving  ones  to  watch  and  care  for  thee  ? 
No  hearts  of  home  and  hearth,  whereon  to  rest 
Thy  weary  brow  ? 

—  "I  had  a  mother  once. 
But  little  love  had  she  to  give  the  boy ; 
And  now,  the  man,  returning  weary,  worn, 
And  stricken  unto  death,  may  yearn  in  vain 
To  feel  the  impress  of  a  mother's  kiss 
Upon  his  dying  lips.     Mother !  —  mother !  — 
Couldst  thou  but  see  thy  child !  "  — 

As  ceased  his  voice, 
From  out  the  silence  of  the  shaded  cot 
A  woman  moved  full  slow.     Her  eyes  were  dim 
With  length  of  years ;  and  in  her  trembling  hands 
She  held  a  staff  wherewith  to  guide  her  steps. 
Those  steps  are  stayed  —  wherefore  ?    Before  her  lies 
The  child  of  her  old  age,  —  a  lovely  form, 
That  hath  nor  life  nor  motion.     She  sees  not 
That  other  child,  so  long  unloved,  unknown. 
And  doth  but  weep  above  the  breathless  clay, 


REGINA.  73 

As  one  who  knows  what  shape  Death's  Angel  wears 
When  with  the  silence  of  his  unseen  hand 
He  strike th  down  the  beautiful. 

—  "Mother!"  — 

In  saddest  accents  came  the  man's  deep  tones, 
And  struck  upon  her  heart,  unsealing  there 
The  long-closed  portals,  and  the  buried  love 
Rose  living  from  its  grave. 

From  out  the  West 
The  setting  sun  a  flood  of  glory  sent ; 
And  through  the  foliage  of  a  stately  tree 
Its  golden  rays  streamed  in  upon  a  brow 
Whereon  the  signet  of  life's  passing  hour 
Had  left  its  shadow  gray.     They  passed  beyond 
And  rested  on  a  forni  that  never  life 
Could  robe  in  beauty  more,  then  faded  all ; 
And  in  the  darkening  room  we  sat,  and  watched 
The  spirit  in  its  flight,  and  heard  the  words 
That  fell  so  slowly  from  those  pallid  lips. 

—  "I  stand  within  thy  solemn  presence,  Death, 
And  all  earth-visions  fade  from  out  my  life. 
I  hear  the  rush  of  wings  that  bear  me  on 
Through  thy  dark  valley  to  the  further  shore; 
And  all  my  soul  is  filled  with  dreamings  wild 
Of  that  which  is  to  be;  of  glories  vast 
O'erpassing  all  our  human  thoughts  of  Light; 
And  of  a  Love  that  weigheth  ail  things  down 
In  its  unapproachable  purity. 
Yet  through  all  these  there  floats  a  mournful  song 
Wherein  the  dust  doth  breathe  its  life  away. 
With  swiftest  face,  and  brow  all  pale  and  wan, 
A  saddest  shape  flits  from  me,  and  I  feel 
It  is  the  Present  I  may  claim  no  more. 
The  Future  that  doth  wait  beyond  the  grave 
Is  all  of  Time  for  me.     The  Past  is  dead, 
And  all  its  deeds  are  written  in  the  Book 
Wherein  my  doom  was  traced  long  ago. 

0  Death !  my  dreams  are  of  thee,  nevermore, 
For  I  am  thine.     Thy  hand  is  on  my  brow; 
Thy  coldness  stealing  to  my  fainting  heart; 
And  my  poor  mother's  form  hath  grown  so  dim, 

1  cannot  see  her  now !     One  kiss,  —  the  last 
From  those  fond  lips.    Nay,  weep  not ;  only  smiles 
Are  in  the  angel's  eyes.     'Tis  very  dark,  — 
Surely  the  night  hath  come,  and  I  shall  see 

No  more  the  dawn  of  day.    Mother  —  thy  hand  — 
So  —  so  —  " 


74  JIEGINA. 

Awhile  lie  lay  with  that  thin  hand 
Clasped  in  his  own,  and  we,  who  watched  within 
The  quiet  chamber,  thought  that  sleep  had  hushed 
That  voice  of  music,  and  in  stillest  mood 
Wo  waited  for  the  morn.     ;'  The  morn  is  here  !  " 
Went  sounding  through  the  hush ;  but  as  the  sun 
Looked  in  upon  the  watchers,  a  low  cry 
Prom  the  pale  mother's  lips  told  every  heart 
That  Death  had  given  to  a  parted  soul 
Another  morn  than  ours  ! 

I  went  forth, 

From  out  the  presence  of  that  silent  heart, 
Into  the  flush  and  sunshine  of  the  morn 
So  gloriously  beautiful !     Earth !  —  Earth !  — 
Thou  hast  so  many  graves  yet  smilcst  still! 
Smilest,  as  if  no  shadow  of  man's  grief 
Could  dim  thy  splendor  or  attaint  thy  bloom. 
I  love  thee,  Earth  !    Unto  mine  earnest  eyes 
Thou  hast  the  virgin  beauty  of  thy  youth ; 
The  cloudless  aspect  of  thine  earliest  morn. 
I've  seen  thee  when  thy  brow  was  all  alight, 
And  day's  resplendent  beams  did  crown  thy  head 
As  with  a  diadem  of  living  fire. 
I've  looked  upon  thee  when  the  burning  noon 
Flamed  hot  and  lurid  on  a  desert's  sands, 
And  deemed  thee  not  unlovely.     When  the  snow 
Lies  pure  and  spotless  on  the  year's  cold  grave 
Thou  hast  a  sadder  seeming,  yet  most  sweet; 
And  liest  in  thy  shroud,  as  some  fair  child 
Unto  whose  dreams  death  whispered  silence; 
.Silence  that  stilled  the  pulse,  but  could  not  tear 
God's  signet  from  the  pure  and  holy  brow ! 
Yet  most  I  love  thee,  Earth !  when  heaven's  arch, 
Glorious  with  stars,  cloth  watchful  bend 
Above  thy  quiet  slumber.     Then  my  soul 
Doth  spurn  the  bonds  of  Time,  and  through  all  space 
Doth  seek  to  hold  communion  with  its  GOD. 
Nor  fruitless  quite  the  search ;  since  oft  the  Night, 
From  out  its  sibyl  caves,  yields  to  our  quest 
Oracles  more  potent  than  the  dazzling  hopes 
Wreathing  life's  early  days.     Spirit-voices 
Floating  through  shadows  aye, — prophetic  tones 
That  sound  upon  our  souls,  and  bid  them  wake 
Unto  a  higher  life  wherein  the  strife 
Is  for  a  deathless  crown  ;  —  and  far-off  songs  — 
Fragments  of  angel-anthems  borne  through  night 
And  silence  to  our  hearts  — are  oracles 
That  only  touch  the  soul,  and  rarely  die 


75 


Unanswered  from  the  world.    Beautiful  Earth  ! 

Hadst  thou  no  graves  wherein  to  gather  life,  — 

If  but  thy  love  had  immortality,  — 

We  would  not  leave  thee  for  the  promise  rich, 

Heralding  the  Better  Land  !     Enough  !     Enough  ! 

For  thou/iast  countless  graves  ;  and  Time,  and  Change 

Do  scatter  ashes  on  our  weary  hearts 

Ere  Death  doth  still  their  pain. 

Day  waned  to  night, 

And  night  to  morn  ;  but  ere  the  horned  moon 
Had  stooped  again  adown  the  western  sky, 
Two  little  mounds  were  looking  up  to  heaven. 
I  stood  beside  them,  as  the  sunlight  died 
From  off  the  distant  hills,  and  in  the  blue 
The  pale  stars  trembled;  and  I  inly  thought 
How  quietly  they  sleep  !  the  peaceful  dead, 
Around  whose  dwelling  never  care  may  come. 
They  see  no  clouding  of  the  summer  day, 
They  hear  no  turmoil  of  the  restless  world, 
Though  loud  and  fierce  above  their  quiet  home 
Its  jarring  voices  clash,  as  swords  that  cross 
On  the  wild  battle-field.     They  feel  no  more 
The  ceaseless  rush  of  life's  unresting  stream  ; 
For  the  cold  waters  of  a  darker  wave 
Have  borne  them  onward  to  that  shoreless  sea, 
Eternity  !     They  pass  from  out  our  sight, 
And  on  their  slow  and  mournful  exodus 
Mists  gather  silently.     Not  yet  may  we 
Look  on  the  Promised  Land  ! 

A  falling  star 

Flashed  sudden  through  the  night,  and  in  the  South 
Vanished  in  darkness!     With  a  fearful  heart 
I  marked  the  omen,  and  with  hasty  steps 
I  followed  where  it  fell.     I  thought  not  then 
Of  the  poor  mother,  and  her  lonely  hearth  ; 
Or  how  she'd  sit,  through  many  a  summer  eve, 
And  in  her  faithful  heart,  as  in  an  urn, 
Gather  sweet  memories  from  her  household  graves. 
Not  then  gave  I  one  thought  to  that  lone  heart 
So  patient  in  its  sorrow;  for  my  own 
Was  thrilling  to  a  dread  I  could  not  master. 
Leon  —  or  dead,  or  dying  —  was  the  theme 
Of  every  thought  and  dream. 

But  all  my  haste 

Was  labor  thrown  away.     I  did  but  tread 
The  same  wide  circle  ever.     Weary,  worn, 
With  every  nerve  a  torture  in  itself. 
I  laid  me  down  to  sleep,  but  in  a  mood, 


76  RE  GIN  A. 

When  every  sense  that  should  have  dormant  been, 
Was  quickened  into  action. 

Round  me  strewn 

Were  moss-grown  fragments  of  that  olden  day 
When  men  reared  temples  from  the  rudest  rock 
And  thought  to  vanquish  Time.     Time  mocked  them  all, 
And  saw  the  domes  they  deemed  imperishable 
Totter,  and  fall,  and  crumble  into  dust. 
Around  me,  too,  were  stones  of  later  date ; 
Pale  marble  cenotaphs,  on  whose  furrowed  plane 
Some  names  were  deeply  cut;  forgotten  names 
That  died  upon  men's  lips  long  years  ago. 
O'er  all  had  Nature's  kindly  spirit  flung 
A  veil  of  greenest  leaves  and  brightest  flowers ; 
While,  towering  high  above  man's  feeble  work, 
The  grand  old  trees  did  rear  their  giant  heads,  — 
The  tireless  growth  of  o'erpast  centuries. 
The  grand  old  trees !    How  in  their  thousand  years 
They  laugh  to  scorn  our  puny  boast  of  life, 
That  only  stretcheth  to  threescore  and  ten  ! 
They  flourished,  green  in  youth,  in  those  old  days 
Whose  record  is  tradition ;  and  the  hour 
When  Time's  death-struggle  is  of  Earth  the  doom 
Shall  find  them  in  their  prime.     Their  fragile  germs 
Awoke  to  life  amid  the  mouldering  dust 
And  stately  monuments  of  crowned  kings, 
Who,  in  their  time,  were  what  the  world  calls  great, 
And  rulers  of  mankind.     As  dies  the  sun, 
When  all  the  west  is  crimson  as  with  blood, 
And  the  low-hanging  clouds  do  mantle  him, 
So  they  died,  royally ;  dying,  as  those 
Who  know  and  feel  an  after-day  must  come, 
When  Fame  shall  twine  its  laurel  for  their  brows, 
And  loving  memories  of  a  grateful  land 
More  fit  ovation  be !    They  slept  in  death, 
And  o'er  their  graves  men  reared  fair  sculptured  stones 
That  should  outlast  all  time,  and  be  for  aye 
Memorials  of  the  dead.    Alas  for  fame ! 
Its  symbols  perished  long  ago,  as  dust 
To  mingle  with  the  dust;  while  the  frail  gerra, 
That  slowly  crept  into  the  outer  air, 
Hath  felt  the  heat  of  ages  and  their  dews, 
And  flings  its  shadow  far  and  wide  above 
The  sepulchre  of  kings ! 

My  wandering  thoughts 
Full  soon  flowed  back  unto  my  place  of  rest ; 
And  then  I  saw  a  lonely  monument, 
Upon  whose  marble  white  no  stains  of  Time 


EEGINA.  77 

As  yet  were  lying.    Two  were  sleeping  there,  — 
A  brother  and  a  sister,  —  and  my  heart 
Did  trace  their  epitaphs,  and  thought  it  read 
The.  writing  on  the  dull  and  silent  stone. 


"  Her  life  was  as  a  stream,  whose  placid  breast 
No  breeze  went  rippling  o'er.    Her  thoughts  were  dreams, 
So  sweet  she  never  gave  them  utterance, 
Lest  darker  blendings  should  their  light  destroy. 
Her  dreams  were  shaped  by  love  that  lonely  dwelt 
Its  secret  shrine  within,  and  looked  not  forth 
Lest  the  cold  world  should  mock  its  humbleness. 
And  she  had  known  the  fulness  of  all  joy 
In  resting  on  a  heart  that  gave  back  love, 
In  measure  such  as  generous  hearts  should,  give. 
But  Fate  had  mingled  in  her  cup  of  life 
One  deep,  abiding  sorrow.     Soon  the  grave 
Did  bear  unto  its  silence  the  true  heart 
Whereon  she  rested  all  her  earthly  dreams ; 
And  she  was  left  alone,  save  for  the  love 
Her  brother's  heart  within.     How  flowed  her  life 
When  thus  the  joy  departed?    As  a  stream 
Upon  whose  waves  the  tender  moonlight  plays, 
Shedding  soft  radiance  there.    From  out  her  heart, 
So  silent  in  its  sorrow,  came  sweet  songs 
Of  earnest  life,  and  solemn  psalms  to  GOD  ; 
And  at  her  hearth  dwelt  meek-eyed  Charity, 
Working  in  secret  aye,  and  all  her  life 
Was  '  holiness  unto  GOD.'    When  she  slept 
An  angel  went  to  Heaven."  — 

n. 

—  "He  who  resteth  here 
Did  live  amid  the  dreams,  wild,  fanciful, 
Of  the  old  days  that  were  dark  ages  called. 
For  him  the  stars  had  voices,  and  the  night 
Did  ope  to  him  its  solemn  mysteries, 
And  told  him  all  its  secrets.    On  his  head 
Snow-flakes  had  fallen,  blanching  all  his  hair, 
Yet  was  his  brow  as  smooth  as  any  child's ; 
As  sweet  and  gentle  too.     His  soft,  low  voice 
Was  full  of  music  in  its  clear  accords, 
And  had  an  angel's  lovingness  of  tone. 
The  years  that  work  such  changes  came  to  him 
As  to  the  promise  of  a  golden  summer 
Doth  autumn's  wealth  of  fruits.     Only  the  dull 


78  RE  GIN  A. 

And  frozen  winter  followed  not  thereon, 
For,  in  the  fulness  of  an  honored  life 
The  old  man  fell  asleep;  the  quiet  stars 
Tilling  his  last  of  earthly  visionrie."  — 

Such  were  the  lines  methought  I  traced  there ; 
And  o'er  and  o'er  I  read  them,  till  each  word 
Seemed  as  a  living  thing,  and  took  strange  shape, 
And  gathered  round  me  with  a  rush  of  sounds 
I  could  not  choose  but  hear.     But  through  all  these 
There  stole  the  far-off  murmur  of  a  brook 
That  sang  unto  the  stars,  and  on  mine  eyes 
The  sweet  sleep  laid  its  spell,  yet  not  of  force 
To  shut  out  visions  from  my  restless  brain. 

I  heard  the  sighing  of  the  soft  south  wind; 
I  saw  the  blossoms  of  the  orange-trees; 
And  in  their  glorious  beauty  rose  the  domes 
Of  the  fair  southern  land  that  was  my  home, 
In  those  bright  days  when  Leon  told  his  love. 
Not  yet  had  dawned  the  day ;  but  morn's  first  beams 
Shone  pale  upon  the  horizon,  and  the  streets 
Were  filled  with  human  life.     It  seemed  to  me 
Some  day  of  festival.     And  yet  not  so. 
There  were  no  signs  of  light  and  festive  mirth 
On  those  care-wrinkled  brows.     No  joyous  mood 
Is  that  which  stamps  resolve  upon  the 'lip, 
And  arms  men  with  the  sword. 

My  gaze  passed  on, 

—  Mid  all  this  crowd,  it  found  not  what  it  sought, 
In  search  of  one  too  well-remembered  face. 
Nor  long  my  quest.     Methought  my  steps  were  stayed 
Beside  the  Hall  of  Council.     On  its  porch 
A  shape  was  standing  armed  for  the  field, 
Above  whose  statelyVorm  a  white  plume  waved 
Shadowing  the  brow.     'Twas  Leon's  self  I  saw ; 
And  yet  I  "could  not  reach  him.     Something  stood 
A  barrier  between  us,  and  my  heart 
Constrained  itself  to  silence,  and  was  still. 
Another  shape  came  gliding  by  me  soon, 
With  pale  and  quivering  lips,  and  took  its  place 
My  Leon's  form  beside.    He  spake  to  it. 

Leon.    Wherefore  so  sad,  my  friend?     Thine's  not  the 

brow 

To  bear  the  brunt  of  battle,  or  the  fate 
That  gives  us  death,  but  never  victory. 
How  now,  Velasquez,  why  so  sad,  my  friend? 


REG  IX A.  79 

Velasquez.    Leon,  the  dust  is  lying  on  her  brow; 
And  from  her  grave,  O  friend,  I  come  to  thee 
For  comfort.     Canst  give  it  ?    Leon !  —  Leon  !  — 
The  world  has  vanished  from  my  broken  life; 
And  in  its  stead  a  shadow  sits  enthroned, 
A  thing  of  dust,  that  calls  me  to  itself 
With  potent  spells,  teaching  unto  my  heart 
Throbs  intermittent,  —  pulses  speaking  aye 
Of  the  near  and  quiet  grave.     Still  I  hear 
The  far-off  murmur  of  the  busy  world, 
And  catch  the  heavy  swell  of  dull  applause 
That  hath  no  music  now.     Hushed  is  the  voice 
That  ever  woke  soft  echoes  in  my  soul, 
And  when  it  died  in  silence,  all  my  life 
Grew  hushed  and  silent  too.     The  sun  departs, 
But  the  day  lingers  long,  though  that  which  made 
Its  glory  is  no  more.     So  lingers  life, 
When  all  that  made  it  beautiful  hath  gone  hence 
Bearing  its  joy  away.     So  clings  the  heart 
Unto  some  phantom  shape  of  memory, 
When  that  which  gave  unto  the  shadow  form 
Doth  rest  beneath  the  mould.     O  vainest  love, 
That  could  not  shield  nor  save  !     What  matter,  now, 
That  this  poor  heart  doth  tremble  unto  pain? 
Will  it  not  so  the  sooner  silent  be? 
The  sooner  journey  to  that  summer  shore 
Above  whose  flowers  Death's  shadow  never  floats  ? 
Shall  I  not  be  at  rest? 

Leon.  Rouse  thee,  old  friend  ! 

Life  was  not  made  to  waste  in  vain  regrets 
O'er  the  returnless  dust.    Keep,  if  thou  wilt, 
Her  shrined  image  in  its  olden  place, 
But  give  thy  life  to  action.     Dream  no  more 
Of  the  still  shadows  on  thy  hearth-stone  lying; 
Dreams  bring  not  back  the  lost;  and  man's  true  realm 
Is  never  memory !     Life  summons  thee 
Unto  its  noblest  battle,  where  the  crown 
Is  ever  to  the  victor.     Lift  thy  brow 
From  out  thy  clasped  hands,  and  with  stout  heart 
Look  Sorrow  in  the  face,  and  she  will  seem 
Less  dark  to  thee. 

Velasquez.  In  vain  !     Thou  hast  not  known 

The  grief  of  gazing  on  a  face  beloved 
That  looked  not  love  again !     Thou  hast  not  felt 
The -wordless  agony  of  breaking  hearts 
When  all  that  made  life  sweet  cloth  flee  away   • 


80  REGINA. 

Into  the  darkness  of  the  closed  eyes,  — 
The  silent  heart ! 

Leon.  Be  still !  for  who  may  count 

The  lost  graves  of  a  lifetime  ?    Who  may  know 
What  shapes  lie  buried  'neath  the  quiet  smiles 
That  only  speak  content  ?     Sweet  hopes  that  shared 
The  rainbow's  promise  —  golden  dreams  that  made 
Our  youth  most  glorious  —  silent  joys  of  heart  — 
Pale,  passionate  thoughts  of  love  without  return, 
And  lone  despair,  have  lived  their  little  life 
And  died  from  out  our  lives  as  flowers  die 
From  off  the  summer  earth.     We  bury  all 
In  coldest  silence,  and  so  forget  them, 
Till  our  later  years  glide  smoothly  onward 
Reckless  of  the  storm  and  turmoil  of  their  youth. 
I  traced,  once,  a  river  from  its  source. 
Swift  from  a  mountain's  brow,  the  water  rushed, 
Fretting  and  foaming  on  its  downward  way, 
Now  lashed  to  anger  'gainst  the  upheaving  rocks, 
Now  soothed  to  music  'neath  the  sun's  soft  rays, 
Through  olden  forest,  and  primeval  gorge, 
Through  silent  dells  where  never  sunlight  came, 
The  stream  went  on  its  way,  and  grew  at  last 
A  broad  and  mighty  river ;  all  its  days 
Of  restless  striving,  shadow,  and  of  storm, 
Forgotten  in  the  glory  of  its  prime,  — 
The  fulness  of  its  rest ! 

Velasquez.  Thou  reasonest  well ; 

'Tis  thy  brain  speaks.     Thy  heart  hath  never  stirred 
Unto  the  breathing  of  a  woman's  name. 
Thou  hast  not  loved ! 

Leon.  Little  thou  knowest  me. 

'Tis  that  my  heart  hath  trembled,  and  grown  still, 
That  I  can  counsel  thee,  in  this  thy  need. 
O  friend,  I  envy  thee !     TJwu  hadst  the  bliss 
To  watch  o'er  thy  beloved,  —  to  whisper  hope. 
Thou  couldst  smooth  the  way  of  darkness,  —  show  the  light 
That  breaketh  from  on  high ;  and  in  thy  grief 
Thou  hast  her  grave  whereon  to  shower  tears, 
/have  nothing.     This  poor  heart  may  not  know 
Where  its  beloved  lies  sleeping.     May  but  learn 
From  stranger  lips,  that  o'er  the  mighty  host 
With  whom  she  journeyed,  death  hath  "flung  the  pall. 
Her  fate  lies  dark  as  night ;  and  in  my  heart 
The  sweetest  fountains  of  its  secret  love 


REGINA.  8V 

Lie  buried  evermore.    Enough !  that  life 
Hath  lost  its  glory.    Not  the  less  doth  this 
Call  on  our  souls  to  work  its  high  behests. 
Our  country  needs  her  sons,  and  base  were  he 
Who,  in  her  hour  of  peril,  sighs  o'er  graves. 
I  know  thee,  gallant  friend !     No  coward,  thou ! 
But  look !     O'er  yonder  hills  the  morning  sun 
Doth  dawn  apace.     Each  to  his  destined  post! 
And,  in  the  coming  strife  that  waiteth  us, 
God  grant  us  victory ! 

So  they  parted, 

And  the  vision  ended.     I  saw  no  more ; 
But  heard  the  quick  and  measured  tramp  of  men 
As  they  went  marching  by  to  cover  earth 
With  dying  and  with  dead.     My  thoughts  did  pass 
Beyond  the  coming  time.     I  saw  a  field 
Crimson  with  blood,  and  heavy  with  the  dead 
Who  had  not  yet  found  sepulchre.     I  saw 
Fair,  pleasant  homes,  wherein  War's  breath  of  fire 
Had  scattered  desolation ;  and  I  heard 
The  wail  of  stricken  hearts  o'er  some  beloved 
Who  had  in  battle  fallen.     Not  a  hearth 
Within  the  City  of  the  Seven  Hills 
But  had  "  some  vacant  chair."    The  restless  tramp 
Of  that  vast  army  marching  to  its  doom, 
Dying  on  mine  ear,  a  moment  lingered ; 
And  I  awoke,  to  look  on  graves  again. 
And  see  the  moonbeams  glimmering  through  the  leaves, 
Shadowy,  like  ghosts. 

Again  I  slept ; 

Again  the  vision  came.    I  saw  a  plain 
Whereon  the  grass  was  springing  fresh  and  green ; 
And  in  the  first  rays  of  the  morning  sun 
The  dew-drops  glittered  bright.     A  bugle  note, 
A  trumpet's  call  to  arms,  arid  in  the  stead 
Of  glittering  dew-drops  moved  a  serried  band, 
All  eager  for  the  strife.     A  moment's  pause,  — 
Then  came  a  rush  —  a  whirl  —  a  clang  of  arms, 
In  the  fierce  melee  meeting !     Through  it  all 
I  caught  the  glancing  of  a  steel-clad  form, 
The  waving  of  a  plume  as  white  as  snow, 
And  with  a  fevered  pulse  I  watched  that  plume, 
And  found  it  ever,  floating  white  above 
The  thickest  of  the  strife.    All  else,  save  that 
Had  vanished  from  my  sight.     I  recked  not  how 
The  tide  of  battle  flowed.    I  did  but  see 
The  snowy  plume  above  that  calm,  pale  brow, 
And  shivered  as  I  gazed.    A  muffled  sound  — 
6 


82  RE  GIN  A. 

The  beating  of  ten  thousand  armed  hoofs 

Upon  the  yielding  turf —  a  rush  —  a  whirr 

That  drowned  all  other  sounds ;  and  then  the  plain 

Rose  up  to  view  again,  all  still  and  dark. 

The  strife  had  ceased.    That  charge  had  mowed  all  down, 

As  mowers  mow  the  grass.     I  saw  him  fall, — 

The  steel-clad  leader  with  the  snow-white  plume,  — 

I  caught  the  gleaming  of  a  broken  sword, 

And  darkness  sealed  up  my  dream. 

I  woke, 

To  fill  the  night  with  laughter,  and  to  be 
Myself  no  more. 

Years  sped ;  I  know  not  how. 
The  chambers  of  my  brain  were  tenantless, 
And  gave  free  scope  for  airy  shapes  therein 
To  hold  fantastic  revel.     All  these  years 
Were  to  my  soul  as  one  long,  dreamful  sleep. 
I  woke  at  last,  "  clothed,  and  in  my  right  mind ; " 
Awoke  — to  find  my  youth  had  gone  from  me, 
Bearing  my  beauty  in  its  silent  flight. 
A  mirror  hung  before  me.    On  its  face 
I  saw  a  shape,  the  shadow  of  myself. 
Eyes  wild  and  gleaming  with  the  fever-fire ; 
And  scattered  tresses  on  whose  raven  hue 
Pale  silver  threads  were  lying  soft  like  snow. 
My  cheek  was  flushed,  but  not  with  health's  warm  tint ; 
And  all  my  strength  was  less  than  any  child's, 
I  was  so  changed,  so  helpless,  and  so  weak ! 
Where  was  the  bounding  step,  that  in  the  days 
Of  my  bright  youth  could  bear  me  o'er  the  earth 
Tireless  and  resting  not  ?    And  where  the  strength 
Succumbing  not  to  pain  ?    Departed  all. 
I  could  not  raise  my  hand  from  off  the  couch 
To  brush  aside  a  tress  that  on  my  brow 
Lay  heavily.     'Twas  wearisome  to  think. 
And  so  I  slept  away  full  many  weeks, 
With  little  sense  or  motion.     Dreamily 
The  days  went  by,  while  health  through  all  my  veins 
Diffused  its  quickening  pulse. 

'Twas  autumn  time ; 
A  day  of  Indian  Summer,  when  I  woke 
From  that  long  death  in  life.    Idly  I  lay 
And  watched  with  childish  eagerness  of  eye 
The  falling  of  the  leaves  that  fluttered  past 
The  open  casement ;  and  I  counted  o'er 
Their  number  as  they  fell.     Their  hue  was  red, 
Or  burnished  as  with  gold ;  and  they  seemed  bright 
To  my  regardful  eyes.     Far  off  — far  off — 


It  E  GIN  A.  83 

A  sweet,  young  voice  was  singing.     Soon  it  came 
Nearer,  and  yet  more  near,  until  I  heard 
The  wording  of  the  song. 

SOXG. 

"The  leaves  are  falling  —  falling;  and  the  day  it  is  so  still, 
That  yon  hear  them  rustling  far  away  upon  the  crimson 

hill,  — 

Upon  the  crimson  hill-side,  where  the  fading  light  of  day 
lieflecteth  back  the  glory  to  the  crimson  wave  alway. 

"The  leaves  are  falling— falling;  and  I  hear  their  sighing 

breath 

As  they  go  floating  downward  to  the  open  lap  of  Death. 
As  the  Dolphin,  when  it  dieth,  bids  the  rainbow  mark  its 

doom, 
So  they  bear  their  strange,  wild  beauty  to  the  cold  and 

wasting  tomb. 

"The  leaves  are  falling  —  falling;  and  the  night  doth  fall 

above. 

Doth  it  send  its  starry  heralds  on  a  message  full  of  love? 
I  know  not ;    for  I  cannot  hear  what  song  the  stars  do 

sing : 
It  needs  must  be  a  sad  one,  for  the  flowers  are  withering. 

"The  leaves  are  falling  —  falling;  and  the  stateliest  trees 

are  bare. 
How  they  seem  to  shake  and  shiver  in  the  clear  and  frosty 

air! 
And  the  flowers  by  the  brook-side,  and  the  daisies  in  the 

grass, 
In  their  sweet  and  modest  beauty,  as  a  vision  from  us  pass. 

"The  leaves  are  falling  —  falling;  dost  thou  hear  them,  as 

they  fall, 
Saying  unto  human  creatures,  '  As  we   perish,  so   must 

all'? 
For  our  fate  is  as  the  falling  leaf's :  we  mingle  with  the 

clay, 
With  a  far  more  glorious  body  to  rise  and  live  alway." 

The  fair  young  singer  in  my  chamber  stood ; 
Her  youth  enfolding  her  as  rose-leaves  lie 
Around  the  rose's  heart.     Within  her  eyes 
There  burned  that  steady  light  clouds  cannot  darken; 
And  her  full  lip  was  arched'with  the  smile 
That  makes  home  beautiful.     Her  quiet  heart 


84  RE  GIN  A. 

Was  formed  for  sunshine,  but  had  strength  as  well 
To  meet  the  storm  unshrinking.     Oft  she  came 
Unto  my  stillest  room,  cheering  its  gloom 
With  the  old  songs  she  sang. 

One  dusky  eve 

A  shape  of  other  mould  did  stand  within 
The  circle  of  my  gaze ;  and  it  had  been 
The  fairest  thing  on  earth,  if  but  amid 
That  glorious  mould  of  form  had  dwelt  alway 
A  loving  human  soul.     I  read  her  heart, 
As  with  a  curling  lip  and  scornful  eye 
She  looked  down  coldly  on  the  feeble  frame 
That  could  not  cope  with  fever,  and  yet  bear 
No  tokens  of  its  dark  and  cruel  strife. 
She  had  a  proud  beauty.     There  was  a  glance 
Half-scornful,  half-defying,  in  her  eyes ; 
And  on  her  brow,  so  calm  in  self-control, 
There  sat  a  veiled  splendor,  as  of  skies 
Where  light  clouds  flecked  the  sun.     She  was  most  fair 
To  look  on ;  but  her  full  and  curved  lip 
Had  long  forgotten  smiles ;  and  for  her  heart,  — 
The  bitter  fruit  beside  the  Dead  Sea  growing 
Were  likest  unto  it.     It  had  no  love. 
Above  that  fountain  sweet,  pride's  desert  sands 
Had  long  been  drifting;  and  the  pleasant  stream 
Was  buried  at  its  source,  and  gave  no  more 
Its  silvery  singing  as  a  tribute  meet 
From  loving  heart  to  Love.     As  she  stood  there, 
Frowning  defiance  to  my  searching  gaze, 
There  stole  into  my  heart  a  memory,  — 
The  voices  I  had  loved  on  that  dark  night, 
When,  'neath  the  pressure  of  the  fallen  pines, 
The  relics  of  an  army  breathless  lay, 
Crushed  into  sudden  death.     Was  this  proud  thing  — 
This  shape  without  a  soul  —  the  queenly  dame 
Of  whom  that  fond  and  fiery  lover  spoke, 
Ere  love  and  all  its  visions  died  in  death? 
She  read  my  thoughts  as  if  on  open  book 
They  had  been  traced. 

—  "  And  so  the  poor  fool  died?  " 
The  words  came  slow  and  hissing  from  her  lips. 
—  "  He  loved  me  once,  and  dared  to  tell  me  so ! 
The  crouching  slave !     I  could  have  struck  him  down 
As  you  would  strike  a  snake !     I  did  but  smile, 
And  on  that  mockery  he  btiilded  hope. 
He  was  a  poet  —  I  laughed  his  rhymes  to  scorn  — 
And  dreamed  of  fame ;  I  bade  him  win  the  wreath 
Ere  boast  of  wearing  it.    He  had  a  friend 


REGINA.  85 

Who  loved  him ;  and  to  that  friend's  simple  heart 

I  seemed  an  angel,  all  too  high  above 

Mere  worlds  of  feeling,  for  a  child  of  dust 

To  hope  for  love  from  me.     I  mocked  him,  too, 

By  seeming  that  I  was  not ;  and  both  went 

From  out  my  presence  as  my  palest  brow 

Were  crowned  with  a  star.     They  could  not  raise 

The  veil  from  off  my  heart,  or  pierce  its  gloom 

To  learn  how  my  soul  did  mock  them !  " 

Eegina.  Lady, 

Dost  know  thou  shouldst  speak  gently  of  the  dead ; 
For  what  the  earth  doth  cover  is  henceforth 
No  theme  for  jibe  or  jest.    Lady,  the  twain 
Of  whom  thou  makest  sport,  died  far  away. 
A  night  of  storm  came,  full  of  death  to  them ; 
Ancf  on  the  morrow  fell  the  soft  white  snow, 
Alike  their  shroud  and  grave.     And  on  his  lips,  — 
Thy  poet-lover's,  —  when  the  summons  came, 
A  woman's  name  was  trembling.    Hast  no  tears 
For  the  swift  doom  that  struck  that  name  beloved 
Into  dull  silence?    Hast  no  pity  left ? 

—  "  Pity?  dost  think  the  falcon  mourns  the  dove 
Whose  heart  it  hath  torn  out?    Dost  think  that  I 
Would  grieve  above  the  dead?    I  tell  thee,  no ! 
Not  if  my  life's  blood  should  pay  the  forfeit ! 
Shadow  which  liest  there,  —  with  such  pale  cheeks 
And  so  rebuking  eyes,  —  little  thou  kuowest 
How  in  the  heart  of  woman  broken  faith 
Doth  bury  deep  all  sweetest,  purest  thoughts; 
As  the  hot  ashes,  showered  o'er  pleasant  fields 
In  the  volcano's  wrath,  enshroudeth  all 
In  everlasting  darkness.     Once  the  queen 
Beloved  and  cherished  of  a  mighty  realm, 
Behold  me  in  my  desolation  —  lone  — 
Discrowned  —  yet  still  regal  in  my  hate." 

Eegina.    Thy  hate!    Oh!  not  on  woman's  lips  that  word 
Should  find  accustomed  greeting ;  and  as  thou 
Dost  hope  for  pardon  in  thy  dying  hour, 
Tear  from  thy  soul  that  demon  dark  and  foul, 
And  love  and  trust  again. 

—  "  Thou  mockest  me  I 
I  love  !    I  trust  again  !    If  thou  didst  know 
How  once  I  trusted,  till  the  thing  I  loved 
Was  steeped  in  shame,  as  the  night  in  darkness ! 


86  REGINA. 

I  was  so  happy  once ;  but  baleful  tongues 

Shed  poison  on  the  fame  of  him  I  loved. 

Then  my  pride  woke,  and  I  flung  off  the  heart 

On  which  my  faith  was  stranded;  flung  it  off 

As  'twere  the  basest  thing  in  all  the  world; 

And  in  my  pride  I  stood  aloof,  and  smiled 

The  while  men's  voices  lashed  him  with  their  scorn. 

Wouldst  thou  have  loved  him  still? "  — 

Eegina.  If  I  had  loved  him, 

Never  breath  of  shame  should  blight  the  feeling! 
If  once  my  hand  had  rested  within  his, 
Not  bitter  jibing,  nor  yet  scornfullest  eyes, 
Should  tear  it  from  his  grasp.    'T would  only  cling 
The  closer  there,  and  with  its  gentle  clasp 
Bear  witness  of  the  heart  so  fond  and  true 
That  could  no  touch  of  worldly  changing  feel. 

—  "  What  if  the  world  turned  coldly  from  his  name, 
Tainting  his  honor  with  its  meaning  laugh 

And  hall-breathed  whisper?  What  if  these  things  were?" 

Eegina.    If  I  did  love  him,  little  would  I  heed 
What  others  said  of  him ;  and  my  full  love 
Should  robe  him  royally,  so  to  mask  the  shame. 

—  "  What  if  he  stood  alone,  —  the  mark  of  scorn,  — 
Bereft  of  friends,  —  the  brand  upon  his  brow 

So  steeped  in  crime  that  the  cold  world  cloth  say, 

'  The  very  dust  he  treads  would  be  defiled 

But  that  GOD  made  it '  ?    Couldst  love  him  still  ?  " 

Eegina.    If  friends  forsake,  then  the  more  need  that  love 
Should  draw  its  tendrils  closer,  so  to  veil 
The  guilt  it  cannot  see ! 

"If  this  be  love, 

Then  what  am  I?    My  heart  had  never  veil 
Above  my  lover's  darkened  fame  to  fling. 
Nay;  I  did  mock  him  with  my  taunting  smile, 
Marvelling  how  aught  so  base  dared  speak  of  love, 
Or  hope  to  keep  it !    I  crushed  him  with  such  words 
As  only  anger  clothes  the  lips  withal ; 
And  then  he  left  me ;  all  his  hopes  in  life 
Flune;,  dead  and  dying,  on  my  scornful  self. 
And  for  a  type  of  such  despair  as  his, 
A  vessel  floating  on  a  shoreless  sea, 
Were  fittest  emblem." 


HE  GIN  A.  87 

Regina.  Thou  couklst  do  this  thing! 

A  woman,  thou,  jret  crush  the  broken  reed! 
Thou  didst  not  love  him !     Love  would  but  have  clung 
The  closer  for  the  guilt;  and  flung  aside 
The  scorning  of  the  world,  as  one  who  runs 
A  race  unto  some  goal  doth  fling  away 
All  that  cloth  stay  his  progress.     Hadst  thou  loved, 
And  o'er  his  fallen  spirit  shed  the  bloom 
Of  thine  own  truth,  the  world  had  scorned  him  less. 
For  love  doth  sanctify  what  it  doth  touch  ; 
Redeeming  in  its  own  eternal  light 
What  else  had  been  but  darkness.     But  thy  heart, 
In  falling  from  him,  left  no  staff  in  life 
Whereunto  hope  might  cling,  and  it  may  be 
He  died  without  a  smile. 

—  "Nay:  never  so. 

He  was  too  proud  of  soul.     There  are  who  wear 
Upon  the  sweetest  feelings  of  the  heart 
A  masking  veil,  that  so  the  idle  world 
May  have  no  knowledge  of  the  secrets  hid 
Within  that  heart's  lone  cells ;   upon  whose  lips 
Bright  smiles  delusive  play,  while  in  the  soul 
The  gnawing  worm  of  bitter  musing  holds 
Its  dark,  and  grim,  and  solitary  sway, 
Warring  with  life !     And  he  was  one  of  these ; 
And  when  he  died,  there  was  no  word  of  moan. 
Brief  space  had  he  to  learn  how  much  man's  heart 
May  sufler  and  yet  live.     My  words  were  death. 
The  morrow's  sun  was  shining  on  his  grave ; 
As  brightly,  smilingly,  as  if  no  heart 
Were  slumbering  beneath." 

Eegina.  Alas !  that  thou 

Didst  let  the  sun  go  down  upon  thy  wrath ; 
Since  ere  the  morrow  with  its  glory  came 
The  heart  that  had  offended  thee  was  dust 
And  could  not  hear  "  forgive !  "     O  child  of  clay ! 
How  couldst  thou  cherish  anger,  when  the  grave 
Doth  lie  so  near  the  hearth?    If  but  thy  voice, 
So  bitter  once,  could  pierce  beyond  the  tomb, 
And  through  its  silence  plead  for  pardon  sweet 
How  eloquent  thou'dst  be !    Too  late !  —  too  late ! 
The  soul  that  hath  departed  hears  no  more 
The  voice  of  earthly  friendship ;  nor  responds 
Unto  its  wail  of  grief.    Thou  hadst  this  life 
Wherein  to  prove  thy  love.     If  thou  didst  fail 
Through  all  the  passed  years,  not  wildest  prayer 


88  REGINA. 

Can  call  the  soul  back  from  its  wanderings 
To  hear  thee  tell  the  love  that  never  deeds 
Could  shape  into  reality !     Too  late ! 
The  grave  hath  set  its  seal  upon  the  past. 
Too  late  to  win  him  back;  but  not  too  late 
To  learn  the  lesson  death  hath  left  to  thee. 

—  "  Be  still !     I  will  not  hear  thee !    What  art  thou, 
That  thus  thou  schoolest  me?    I  would  not  stoop,  — 
If  from  his  grave  he  rose  to  hear  the  words,  — 
I  would  not  stoop  so  low  as  say  '  Forgive.' 
What  dost  thou  here  ?    I  did  not  bid  thee  come. 
Hence  to  thy  grave !  "  — 

As  thus  the  proud  one  spoke, 
I  saw  a  pale,  wan  shape,  ethereal 
Float  through  the  moonlight,  with  a  lambent  brow, 
And  eyes  that  burned  like  stars.     A  soft,  low  voice, 
Clear  as  the  echo  of  an  evening  bell, 
Thrilled  on  ray  heart;  it  was  so  strangely  sweet; 
And  thus  the  spirit  spake  :  — 

—  "  Poor,  erring  child, 

That  will  not  bear  rebuke.     I  come  to  thee,  — 
GOD  hath  permitted  it,  —  and  in  my  love 
I  have  o'erswept  the  dark,  dividing  grave, 
Dimming  my  glory,  so  to  rescue  thee. 
Thy  youth  —  thy  beauty  —  are  as  upas-trees, 
Blighting  thy  soul's  true  life.     I  blot  them  out. 
The  worm  is  gnawing  at  the  flower's  heart; 
'Twill  soon  be  withered.     Years  are  granted  thee, 
Wherein  to  sow  such  seed  as  yet  may  bear 
Fruits  that  may  ripen  in  eternity. 
Remember,  O  proud  heart,  '  they  who  love  much 
Are  forgiven  much.'    O  Father!  in  whose  sight 
Earth's  children  are  as  dust,  yet  who  didst  yield 
Thine  only  Son  to  death  that  we  might  live ; 
Hear  us,  we  pray  thee,  and  in  thy  good  time 
Redeem  this  soul ;  for  not  alone  by  tears 
Can  sin  be  washed  out.     'Tis  only  Love 
That  —  shining  from  above  —  can  take  away 
The  Shadow  from  the  Cross  !  "  — 

Serena's  step 

Light  echoed  from  the  porch.     Her  voice  in  song 
Broke  musical  upon  the'solemn  pause 
That  filled  my  haunted  room.    The  spirit's  brow 
Did  grow  more  human  as  those  soft  tones  rose 
Clear,  full,  and  rounded,  yet  so  sadly  sweet; 


RE GIN  A.  89 


And  in  his  starry  eyes  a  shadow  dawned ; 
A  passing  touch  of  mortal  sympathy. 

SERENA'S  SONG. 

"  The  night  is  on  the  river, 

And  the  stars  they  shine  so  pale ; 

And  the  floating  lilies  shiver 
As  they  feel  the  autumn  gale. 

The  willow  boughs  are  sweeping 
Down  upon  a  quiet  grave ; 

For  Eulema  lies  sleeping 


"  As  a  wail  o'er  autumn  flowers 

Doth  our  heart's  sad  moaning  ring 
Through  all  the  winter  hours 

Till  the  coming  of  the  spring ; 
But  we  think  amid  our  weeping 

Of  the  life  beyond  the  grave, 
Though  Eulema  lies  sleeping 

Where  the  wave  sings  to  the  wave." 

Ere  the  last  words  had  died  upon  mine  ear, 

The  spirit-shape  that  in  my  chamber  stood, 

Had  passed  from  out  the  moonlight  into  shade. 

I  saw  a  hand  —  within  its  grasp  a  cross  — 

From  out  the  shadow  come,  and  on  the  brow 

Of  the  cold-hearted  maiden  plant  a  sign,  — 

A  white  and  burning  cross ;  and  in  its  light 

I  saw  her  beauty  as  a  ruin  foul ; 

For  GOD  had  smitten  her  with  leprosy. 

She  felt  her  doom,  and  fled  from  out  my  sight 

With  a  wild,  bitter  cry,  —  "  Unclean !  unclean !  "  — 

"  GOD  pity  her !  "  I  said. 

—  "Hepitieth  all," 

The  spirit-voice  replied,  "  and  his  great  Love, 
Exhaustless  in  itself,  doth  watch  and  keep 
The  children  of  the  dust.     With  tenderest  care, 
As  loving  Shepherd  of  a  wandering  flock, 
GOD  seeketh  out  the  lost,  and  leads  them  back 
Unto  the  fold.    His  ways  are  not  as  man's, 
Nor  yet  his  thoughts.    Therefore,  rest  patient,  thou; 
Nor  in  thy  hasty  mind  dare  question  why 
Evil  or  good  be  wrought.    Enough  for  thee ; 
GOD  '  doeth  all,  things  well ! ' "  — 


90  REGINA. 

I  veiled  my  eyes 

Beneath  the  burthen  of  that  grave  rebuke ; 
And  in  the  drooping  of  the  heavy  lids 
The  spirit  passed  away.     Again  I  heard 
Gentle  Serena  (so  they  called  the  maid) 
Soft  singing  to  the  night  a  song  of  sleep. 
O'er  all  my  senses  stole  the  soothing  strain, 
And  straight  I  slept. 

The  morning  broke  in  clouds ; 
And  through  the  spaces  of  the^leafless  trees 
The  wind  moaned  restlessly.     Gray,  rifted  clouds 
Full  slowly  floated  up  the  grayer  sky,  — 
A  sky  all  dull  and  cold.     A  little  brook, 
That  had  been  singing  all  the  summer  long, 
Was  very  sober  now,  and  put  on  gray, 
Glassing  the  skies  it  mirrored.     Some  few  birds, 
Clad  in  the  same  sedatest  coloring, 
Were  searching  wistfully  on  the  cold,  gray  ground ; 
And  all  the  landscape,  with  its  quiet  tints 
Was  as  a  prophecy  of  snow.     It  came ; 
And  as  it  fell  in  soft  and  feathery  flakes, 
Filling  its  mission  with  so  little  stir, 
It  minded  me  of  good  deeds  done  in  secret; 
Of  deeds  that  had  no  fame,  and  were  but  known 
To  some  poor  hearts  and  Heaven. 

Serena's  voice, 

Full  of  a  new-born  feeling,  tuned  my  heart 
Unto  another  key;  striking  such  chords 
As  called  the  master-passion  into  life, 
And  broke  the  slumbrous  pause  of  memory. 

Serena.    Lady,  the  world  is  stirred  as  with  one  pulse. 
A  name  is  throbbing  on  its  mighty  lips ; 
And  a  great  deed  hath  hue  been  chronicled,  — 
A  deed  that  flings  its  shadow  on  past  time, 
And  looms  up  grandly  'gainst  the  future's  disc. 
A  fate  hath  been  fulfilled  most  gloriously,    • 
An  ancient  realm  redeemed  from  its  grave, 
And  on  the  noblest  brow  in  all  the  land 
A  crown  is  resting  lightly.     A  bold  soul 
Hath  left  its  signet  upon  all  these  things, 
And  lighted  the  whole  world  with  its  renown. 
Wonldst  thou  hear  his  name  ?    Leon  the  Rover  !  — 
Hover  no  more,  but  lord  of  all  the  lauds 
His  fathers  held  before  him !  — 

As  the  sun, 
Breaking  through  clouds,  defiueth  everything, 


RE  GIN  A.  91 

Making  each  outline  stand  out  bold  and  sharp, 
So  came  that  name  unto  ray  twilight  brain, 
Unsealing  the  closed  leaves  of  memory. 
And  I  bethought  me  of  that  vision  dark,  — 
The  field  of  battle,  and  the  rushing  steeds,  — 
The  silence  and  the  pall.     He  died  not,  then, 
My  noble  Leon!  yet,  what  matters  it? 
He  knows  not  I  still  live;  and  in  his  heart 
My  old-time  place  hath  silent  been  so  long ! 
Pie  had  no  room  for  grief.     Far  nobler  themes 
Were  stirring  in  his  brain;  and  evermore, 
In  this  strange  life  of  ours  wherein  we  move, 
The  world  of  action  calls  us,  and  we  leave 
The  dead  to  sleep.     Why  call  pale  shadows  up 
From  their  lone  rest  to  haunt  us?     Why  install 
Within  our  hearts  an  image  that  doth  keep 
Alive  old  agony  ?    And  yet,  —  and  yet,  — 
To  be  forgotten  by  the  one  we  love,  — 
Forgotten,  when  our  every  pulse  doth  beat 
Only  for  that  one !     Is  not  this  torture 
Stilling  all  other  pain?     O  loving  heart, 
This  must  be,  and  hath  been ;  so  be  thou  still 
And  very  patient.     Never  faithful  trust 
But  found  itself  rewarded  in  the  end, 
For  all  its  weary  waiting. 

Softest  eyes 

Looked  down  on  mine  the  while  I  thought  all  this ; 
And  iii  their  gaze  there  was  a  meaning  sweet 
I  read  full  easily.     Serena's  heart 
Had  learned  my  secret,  and  its  quiet  pulse 
Was  throbbing  fast  as  mine.     I  spoke  no  word ; 
I  could  not  then  reveal  my  inward  joy; 
It  was  too  deep  for  speech.     She  spake  again 
Veiling  emotion  as  I  veiled  mine, 
With  many  words  on  other  themes  of  life. 

Serena.    I  had  a  friend  once,  who  was  a  poet, 
And  his  very  talk  had  music  in  it. 
He  was  a  pale-faced  youth,  with  no  more  bloom 
Than  showeth  in  a  moonbeam,  and  the  world 
Could  find  no  beauty  in  him.     He  had  eyes 
That  were  all  heart  and  soul;  and,  seen  but  once, 
Their  lambent  light  would  follow  you  alway. 

Eegina.    And  this  young  poet,  —  loved  he  Serena? 

Serena.     Nay,  he  loved  another,  who  had  no  love 
To  give  him  in  return,  but  only  scorn. 


y2  EEGINA. 

For  she  was  proud  and  very  beautiful, 

And  prized  not  the  heart  the  poet  proffered ; 

And  yet  she  smiled  on  him.     And  for  that  smile,  — 

That  empty  trapping  of  a  scornful  lip,  — 

He  wove  him  dreams  of  fame  that  was  to  come 

And  crown  his  brow ;  and  these  he  told  to  me, 

And  sang  in  songs  he  thought  would  never  die. 

Alas,  poor  Ion !     Save  for  one  sad  heart, 

His  sweetest  strains  had  perished  long  ago. 

•It  seems  to  me  that  in  its  thirst  for  gold, 

The  world  cares  little  for  its  gifted  sons ; 

And  but  that  genius  lives  beyond  the  sky, 

There  finding  native  soil,  'twere  far  more  wise 

To  silence  all  its  breathings,  and  to  keep 

Them  holy  unto  Heaven ! 

lleyina.  Nay,  Serena. 

No  truest  life  was  yet  lived  out  in  vain. 
What  if  it  silent  glide,  as  some  still  stream 
That  never  saw  the  sun,  and  pass  away 
With  never  glory  of  the  golden  light 
To  dance  upon  its  wave  ?    What  if  it  be 
A  glorious  river,  flowing  swift  and  far 
Unto  the  soundless  sea,  through  all  its  course 
Rejoicing  in  the  clear  and  cloudless  day? 
Or  diverse  still,  with  all  the  Protean  forms 
Wherewith  the  earth  doth  gift  its  progeny? 
Little  it  profiteth  —  when  the  dust  doth  fall 
Alike  on  all  —  that  the  light  world  did  smile 
Upon  the  foolish,  frowning  down  the  wise. 
Little  it  profiteth.     Time's  passing  tries 
As  in  the  fire  the  worth  of  all  these  things. 
And  Folly's  children  reap  a  field  of  tares 
From  the  wild  sowings  of  a  foolish  sire, 
Who  scattered  bitter  seed.    A  wise  man's  words 
Are  germs  that  blossom  in  some  after  time, 
And  ripen  into  rich  and  golden  fruit. 
"  By  their  fruits  ye  know  them." 

Serena.  What,  then,  avails 

The  idle  breath  of  human  sympathy? 
Why  strive  for  fame,  if  all  its  incense  be 
A  foam-wreath  on  the  wave  ?    Passing  away, 
It  may  be,  long  before  our  mortal  dust 
Hath  mingled  with  the  clay  that  lies  around 
Its  silent  resting-place.    Why  weave  bright  dreams 
And  clothe  their  beauty  in  immortal  verse, 
If  they  must  die  with  us,  and  be  no  more 
A  glory  on  the  earth? 


RE  GIN  A.  93 

Itegina.  Why  dost  thou  keep 

So  closely  shrined  in  thy  heart  of  hearts, 
The  faded  memory  of  one  poet's  words? 
Are  they  not  clear  to  thee  ?     Woven  amid 
The  pulsings  of  thy  life?    Yet  askest  thou 
Why  men  do  work  for  fame  ?    Ofttimes  their  hearts 
Are  twined  in  with  every  word  they  write, 
And  thoughts  of  self  are  blotted  from  the  scroll, 
Or  Fame  doth  woo  them  with  its  siren  song; 
And  but  to  hear  that  veriest  mockery 
They'll  pour  their  heart's  blood  on  life's  desert  sands, 
Nor  think  the  red  libation  poured  in  vain ! 

Serena.    Yet  why  not  rest  in  full  and  calm  content ; 
Nor  link  the  future  with  the  present  hour, 
Filling  the  soul  with  visions  that  must  break 
The  stillness  of  repose  ? 

Regina.  Thou  askest  this? 

0  simple  heart !     Art  thou  content  to  dwell 
In  dust  forever,  climbing  not  the  skies 
That  shine  so  blue  above;  nor  risking  aught 
To  gain  a  fuller  knowledge  than  thou  hast? 

1  tell  thee,  thou  art  nothing,  if  this  be. 

Thy  heart  hath  never  throb,  thy  soul  no  wings, 

If  in  the  dulness  of  content  thou  dwell, 

Nor  aim  at  higher  things  !     Man  cannot  rest. 

The  spell  of  progress  on  his  spirit  lies ; 

And  till  the  grave  doth  set  that  spirit  free, 

Its  course  is  downward,  onward,  or  upward, 

As  unto  good  or  evil  it  doth  tend. 

GOD  never  meant  life's  fountain-spring  to  be 

A  dull  and  stagnant  pool !     And,  oftentimes, 

The  fame  thou  slightest  is  a  holy  thing, 

So  we  but  use  it  rightly.    If  it  be 

The  motive  power  unto  some  highest  end, 

And  lead  the  soul  into  those  sacred  paths 

Where  GOD  and  angels  walk,  wouldst  think  it  then 

So  very  slight  a  thing? 

Serena.  If  this  were  so, 

I'd  shrine  it  in  my  heart,  as  some  pure  shape 
Whereon  the  light  of  Heaven  did  shine  alway. 
But  in  my  soul'a  latent  shadow  lies, — 
An  oracle  of  grief,  — and  well  I  know 
By  the  sad  wisdom  of  one  poet's  life, 
That  Fame  as  written  on  the  walls  of  Time 
Is  but  a  bitter  mockery  at  the  best ; 


94  KEG  IN  A. 

And,  like  the  ivy  round  the  ruined  tower, 
It  decks  the  genius  that  it  feedeth  on! 

Regina.     Serena,  in  thy  heart  there  is  a  thought,  - 
A  deathless  memory.     Thou  dost  garner  it 
As  a  most  precious  gem,  and  with  its  hue 
It  colors  all  thy  life. 

Serena.     Well,  be  it  so ! 
I  know  it,  and  I  feel  it.     Evermore 
A  voice  is  sounding  in  my  thirsting 'ear, 
And  I  cannot  forget !     Hush  !  —  let  it  pass ! 
I  know  a  story  of  a  faithful  heart, 
And  I  will  tell  it  thee.     'Tis  very  brief, 
Like  all  the  things  of  earth. 

The  moon's  cold  rays 

Were  gleaming  down  upon  the  moaning  sea, 
Whose  restless  waters  surged  upon  a  shore 
Against  whose  senseless  rocks,  for  countless  years, 
That  sea  had  beat,  yet  left  no  impress  there. 
My  childhood's  home  was  by  that  surging  sea ; 
And  aye  its  solemn  song  went  sounding  past 
The  threshold  of  our  dwelling,  filling  all 
My  dreams  wiih  its  deep  swell.     There  was  a  grave 

—  A  lone  and  lowly  grave  —  within  a  dell 
Whose  waters  flowed  down  silent  to  the  sea; 
And  my  fleet  footsteps  by  that  little  mound 
Were  often  stayed.     I  loved  to  linger  there, 

And  weave  bright  garlands  o'er  that  grave  to  hang; 
For  I  had  heard  that  youth  and  beauty  there 
Had  found  an  early  resting. 

One  fair  eve 

—  A  summer  moon  was  floating  through  the  sky  — 
I  stole  back  thoughtful  to  my  quiet  home. 

My  mother  met  me  by  the  trellised  porch. 
"  Be  very  still,  my  child.     An  old-time  friend 
Long  absent  from  us  hath  come  home  to  die. 
Go  to  him,  if  thou  wilt;  he  ever  loved 
To  see  child-faces  near  him;  and  thy  brow 
Hath  that  will  win  his  love."  — With  stillest  feet 
I  passed  into  the  chamber,  hushed  and  dark, 
And  crept  unto  his  couch,  and  laid  my  hand 
Within  his  thin  white  fingers ;  and  they  closed 
So  tenderly  on  mine.  —  "  Love  me,  my  child. 
My  life  is  passing  as  a  dream  away, 
And  I  have  need  of  love,  whereon  to  rest 
My  pained  and  weary  heart."  —  For  sole  reply 


RE  GIN  A.  05 

I  laid  my  head  upon  his  breast,  and  wept; 

For,  as  I  bowed  my  head,  I  heard  the  loud, 

Dull  beating  of  his  heart,  and  knew  too  well 

Unto  what  bourn  that  muffled  sound  was  tending; 

For  so  had  beat  my  father's  patient  heart 

Ere  it  grew  still  forever.  —  "  Nay ;  little  one, 

Thou  shouldst  not  weep.     Thou  art  too  young  for  tears. 

Come,  talk  to  me ;  for  I  can  listen  still. 

Dost  tlion  love  the  sea?  "—  So  I  nestled  close, 

And  told  him  how  I  wandered,  day  by  day, 

Unto  a  lonely  grave,  there  weaving  wreaths 

Wherewith  to  garland  it.  —  "  Thou  goest  there  ! 

Where  she  lies  sleeping,  crowning  with  sweet  flowers 

Her  early  grave?    GOD  love  thee,  child,  for  this !  "  — 

And  on  my  brow  his  quivering  lips  he  pressed. 

He  was  not  young,  — this  poor  death-stricken  man, 
Round  whom  my  heart's  fresh  tendrils  twined  soon,  — 
He  was  not  young  ;  and  in  his  saddest  eyes 
There  burned  a  light  which  was  not  of  this  earth, 
And  told  of  other  lands  whereto  the  soul 
Was  winging  its  swift  way.     One  quiet  eve 
I  heard  him  singing  to  himself  these  words  :  — 

"  Alina.  in  our  golden  days 

The  summer  hours  wers  far  more  sweet; 
And  pleasure  with  its  sunny  rays 

Came  speeding  aye,  our  smiles  to  meet. 
But  with  the  passing  of  that  time 

The  light  grew  fast  with  darkness  rife, 
And  rain  of  sorrow's  bitter  rime 

Did  flood  the  fair  fields  of  my  life. 

"  Alina,  all  these  weary  years 

The  cloud  hath  been  upon  my  way; 
The  ceaseless  fall  of  endless  tears 

Hath  shut  the  sunshine  from  the  day. 
I  tread  not  now  the  olden  ways ; 

I  hear  no  more  the  low,  sweet  song 
That  ever,  in  those  happy  days, 

The  waves  were  singing  all  day  long. 

"  Alina,  in  thy  quiet  grave 

My  hopes  were  buried,  one  by  one, 
And  now  beside  the  restless  wave 

I  listen  for  the  sea-bird's  moan. 
I  listen,  — but  I  do  not  hear; 

My  thoughts  are  only  of  the  dead. 
The  shadows  of  another  year 

Will  never  darken  o'er  my  head." 


96  RE  GIN  A. 

As  ceased  the  music  of  that  softest  voice, 
My  pale-browed  mother  stood  within  the  room, 
And,  with  a  gentle  motion,  she  flung  wide 
The  darkened  casement,  till  the  moon  shone  in.  — 
"  Art  better,  Walter?"  — softly  questioned  she. 
—  "Better?  yea;  forlam  dying, — dying 
With  the  same  fever  burning  in  my  veins 
That  burned  there  long  ago,  —  ay,  long  ago ; 
When  all  my  dreams  in  their  bright  flush  of  hope 
Did  turn  to  ashes  on  a  young  girl's  grave ! 
How  beautiful  she  was  !     I  see  her  now, 
Her  golden  tresses  veiling  o'er  a  brow 
As  pale  as  any  lily,  and  her  eyes 
So  soft  and  brown,  sweet  smiling  down  on  me. 
She  was  so  beautiful !     How  could  I  dream 
That  fading  — death  —  was  written  in  each  line 
Of  that  fair,  blushing  face  ?     How  the  round  moon 
Doth  smile  to-night !     So  did  it  seem  to  smile 
When  last  we  met  beside  the  summer  sea. 
Alina  mia,  how  thy  tears  did  fall 
When  by  the  margin  of  that  silver  wave 
We  breathed  adieu !     The  moon  was  on  the  wane. 
Ere  it  had  filled  its  horn,  I  stood  again 
Beside  the  sea.    Alina  was  not  there, 
And  the  cold  moon  was  shining  on  her  grave ! 
'Twill  shine  on  mine  to-morrow !     Thou  smilest. 
Dost  think  I  dream?    O  friend,  I  hear  the  swell, 
The  far-off  murmur,  of  the  rising  tide 
Forever  beating  on  the  shores  of  Death ; 
And  in  my  heart  there  is  an  answering  sound, 
A  welcome  unto  death ;  and  I  go  hence, 
More  blest  in  dying  than  I  was  in  life. 
An  angel  beckons  me.     She  told  me  once, 
Plow  ;  GOD,  he  giveth  his  beloved  sleep,' 
And  I  shall  sleep  ere  morn.    Hath  the  moon  set? 
I  cannot  see  her  grave."  — 

And  so  he  slept. 

They  laid  him  where  Alina  long  had  lain, 
And  the  soft  singing  of  the  solemn  sea 
Floats  sadly  o'er  their  rest. 

Serena  ceased. 

Her  voice  died  into  silence,  as  the  sun 
Below  the  purpled  hill-tops  sank  to  rest. 
Soon  in  the  cold  and  stormless  winter  sky, 
A  lonely  star  shone  out.     A  ghastly  shape 
Rose  up  between  us  and  that  palest  orb ; 


RE  GIN  A.  97 

And,  shuddering,  I  turned  me  from  the  loathed  sight 
Of  the  proud  maiden  in  her  leprosy. 

"  Why  do  ye  shudder  at  my  mourning  robe? 
For  it  becomes  me  well,  since  in  the  grave 
My  lover  lieth  low.    And  thou,  fond  fool, 
That  kueelest  there,  and  dar'st  not  look  on  me, 
Why  hast  thou  not  a  mourning  garment  too, 
Since  he  thou  lovest  perished  long  ago? 
I  sent  him  to  his  doom ;  and  he  doth  sleep 
Where  never  wailing  from  thy  loving  lips 
Can,  break  his  rest."  — 

How  our  poor  hearts  do  cling 
Unto  the  veriest  fantasy  of  hope, 
Though  the  wan  ghost  doth  mock  us  evermore ! 
So  had  Serena  clung  unto  the  thought 
That  in  some  day,  though  far  away  and  dim, 
Her  poet-lover  would  return  to  her. 
Alas,  poor  child !  the  dead  return  no  more ! 
I  saw  her  drooping,  as  the  words  came  fast 
And  bitter  from  those  white  and  leprous  lips ; 
And  then  —  and  then  —  I  looked  on  death  again ! 

A  wan,  pale  face  that  had  no  hue  of  life ; 
Dark  tresses  heavy  with  the  clew  of  death ; 
Cold  eyes  slow  glazing  'neath  the  moveless  lids ; 
And  lips  all  still,  as  frozen  into  stone. 
What  needeth  more  ?    The  arrow  had  struck  home,  — 
The  death  was  in  her  heart ! 

Seraph,  they  say 

Ye  have  no  part,  no  sympathy  with  our  race ; 
And  that  ye  only  pity  the  wild  love 
That  breaketh  human  hearts.     If  this  be  so  — 
Nay?  —  then  I'll  mourn  not  o'er  Serena's  grave ; 
For  in  her  youth  she  passed  away  from  earth; 
And  in  that  world  where  all  blest  spirits  are 
She  hath  forgotten  tears ! 


I  stood  again, 

When  some  long  days  of  travel  had  gone  by, 
Within  the  City  of  the  Seven  Hills. 
The  pestilence  was  abroad  :  and  all  the  streets 
Were  filled  with  living  corpses.     Like  a  ghost 
I  glided  through  the  dread  and  silent  streets, 
Seeking  one  form  I  dared  not  hope  to  find; 
Yet  found  at  last  within  the  palace  hall 
Where  first  he  said  he  loved  me.    Lone  he  stood, 
7 


98  EEGIXA. 

And  shadow-like,  the  white  plume  waving  still 
Above  his  palest  brow.     Twas  Leon's  self, 
Changed,  but  tbe  same ;  and  ere  my  lips  could  breathe 
The  name  so  long  beloved,  he  turned  to  clasp 
Regina  in  his  arms.     O  joy  past  hope, 
To  rest  again  upon  that  faithful  heart ! 

Regina,     Canst  love  me  yet  ?    I  am  not  what  I  was ; 
For  lonely  thoughts  have  robbed  me  of  my  youth. 
Once  thou  didst  call  me  beautiful,  —in  days 
When  joy  sat  crescent  on  my  radiant  brow; 
And  sorrow  lurked  unseen  and  silent  all 
In  the  dim  future's  horoscopic  glass. 
Now  all  my  beauty  fades,  like  as  the  summer, 
Into  the  wan  and  sickly  autumn  leaf. 
Dost  love  me  yet  ? 

Leon.  Ay,  by  my  father's  faith ! 

Thou  hast  not  changed  to  me.    Thy  brow  wears  still 
Its  angel  aspect ;  and  thy  quiet  eyes 
Smile  on  me,  as  of  old.     What  matter,  then, 
If  some  frail  bloom  hath  faded  from  thy  cheek? 
So  that  thy  heart  doth  keep  its  wealth  of  love 
Sacred  to  me  I  cannot  ask  for  more, 
Yet  claim  no  less.     Let  but  propitious  fate 
Set  on  my  brow  the  crown  my  fathers  wore, 
And  thou,  Eegina,  shalt  be  queen  indeed. 
The  day  that  calls  thee  mine  e'en  now  lights  up 
The  far-off  horizon  of  my  dawning  hopes ; 
And  soon  the  world,  through  all  its  circles  wide, 
Shall  ring  with  tidings  of  a  battle  won ; 
An  ancient  crown  redeemed. 

Eegina.  Not  yet  redeemed  ? 

Nay,  then  the  world  hath  falsehood  on  its  lips. 
Leon,  dost  know  that  I  was  waiting  death 
In  calmest  patience,  when  I  heard  thy  name 
Heralded  as  conqueror  crowned  in  the  strife? 
It  woke  me  from  my  dream  of  Leon  dead ; 
And,  in  my  heart,  where  long  pale  shadows  sat,  — 
Strange,  mocking  visions  of  a  fevered  brain,  — 
Love  throned  himself  again,  and  Reason  came 
Unto  its  ancient  seat. 

Leon.  Regina  mine, 

That  thou  shouldst  so  have  suffered !     But,  enough ! 
We  will  not  dull  this  meeting  with  a  thought 
Of  what  hath  been.    Wouldst  see  mine  olden  home? 


REGINA.  99 

My  bark  is  tossing  idly  on  yon  sea ; 

And  some  few  hours  would  bear  us  o'er  its  foam, 

Unto  the  summer-land.     Nay;  fear  thee  not, 

There  is  no  danger  lurking  on  the  deep ; 

The  breeze  is  steady,  and  the  sky  is  clear; 

And  in  my  home  there  are  true,  faithful  hearts 

To  greet  my  gentle  bride.     Ay,  bride  !     This  night 

Shall  see  thee  mine  by  all  the  holiest  vows 

Wherewith  our  faith  doth  temper  human  souls. 

What  ho  !  Velasquez  !     We  must  forth  to-iiight. 

And  to  thy  gentle  care  I  leave  my  bride. 

Be  thou  her  brother  till  the  church  shall  give 

A  husband's  right  to  me.     Thine  eyes  are  swords; 

I  fear  them  not,  old  friend.     'Tis  no  new  love 

That  throbbeth  in  my  heart,  and  long  ere  morn 

We  will  the  tale  rehearse.     But  now  the  breeze 

Doth  murmur  at  delay,  and  we  must  be 

At  home  ere  the  high  noon  doth  blaze  adown 

The  burning  summer  sky.     To  thy  true  care 

I  leave  the  life  that's  nearest  unto  mine. 

And  thou,  Regina,  love  Velasquez  well. 

Eegina.    Nay,  Leon ;  that  were  surely  needless  word. 
For  where  thy  heart  is  mine  must  always  be, 
And  whom  thou  callest  friend  is  mine  also. 

Velasquez.  Thanks,  gentle  lady. 


Some  brief  hour  hence 
Our  bark  was  speeding  o'er  the  sunlit  sea; 
And  at  high  noon  a  castle's  hall  was  decked 
Meet  for  a  bridal.     When  the  even  came 
Leon  and  I  were  wandering  on  the  shore, 
Talking  as  lovers  talk;  while  on  my  hand 
The  circlet  glittered  bright,  —  the  little  pledge 
That  marked  us  one  forever. 

Leon.  Thou  smilest. 

Eegina.    And  wherefore  not  ?    I  am  so  happy !    I  rest 
Upon  the  very  fulness  of  content, 
And  want  not  anything.    And  if  I  smile, 
'Tis  that  my  heart  concealeth  not  its  joy. 

Leon.    Dost  love  me,  then,  so  well  ?    What  if  the  world 
Had  marked  me  with  its  scorn,  and  sealed  my  brow, 
As  in  the  former  ages  GOD  sealed  Cain's  ? 


100  ItEGINA. 

Eegina.    I  care  not  what  the  world  cloth  think  of  thee ; 
For  in  my  loving  heart  thou  sit'st  enthroned 
In  likeness  of  an  angel.     Thou  art  more 
Than  all  the  world  to  me,  and  my  fond  eyes 
Do  crown  thee  with  perfection.     So  thou  lov'st, 
I  could  content  me  with  the  whole  world's  scorn, 
And  bear  myself  as  should  Golconda's  lord, 
So  rich  iny  life  would  be !     O  noble  heart ! 
So  gentle,  loving,  true,  yet  firm  withal ; 
Upon  thy  throbbing  pulse  I  rest  my  soul, 
Nor  fear  its  trust  will  prove  a  broken  reed. 
I  could  not  doubt  thy  truth ;  for  that  were  doom 
More  dark  and  deadly  than  if  death  should  come 
Between  our  hearts  forever.     In  the  grave 
If  thou  wert  sleeping,  I  might  watch  above 
And  guard  thy  rest ;  till  in  the  Silent  Land 
Our  souls  should  meet  again.    But,  wert  thou  false, — 
If  mingled  darkly  in  my  cup  of  life 
That  bitterest  drop  should  be,  —  I  could  but  pray 
In  its  first  agony  to  droop  and  die. 

Leon.        Nay ;  fear  thee  not,  mine  own.    No  chill  can 

come 

Between  our  loves,  till  that  last  one  of  earth, 
When  death  but  parts  us  for  a  little  space, 
To  join  our  souls  for  all  eternity. 

Awhile  we  sat  in  silence ;  on  each  brow 
The  quiet  sunshine  of  our  full  content. 
The  evening  faded,  and  o'er  smoothest  sea 
The  night  came  down,  with  pale,  moonlighted  eyes. 
A  shadow  crossed  us.     'Twas  Velasquez'  self; 
And  with  his  mournful  voice  he  broke  the  spell 
Of  happy  silence  and  of  loving  eyes. 

Velasquez.    The  moon  rides  high  to-night.    Look  how 

her  smile 

Doth  light  the  waters  where  the  green  isles  rest ; 
And  see,  where,  in  the  shadow,  calm  and  slow, 
Yon  swan  floats  graceful  o'er  the  yielding  tide ! 
Would  I  were  like  that  swan  !  to  dwell  alway 
Where  the  bright  summer  lingers  long  and  late, 
Nor  yields  to  winter's  sway.     So  might  I  'scape 
The  waning  splendor  of  the  dying  year; 
Nor,  with  wan  autumn's  wail  o'er  perished  things, 
Blend  my  sad  sighs  for  dead  and  buried  hopes 
That  in  their  graves  lie  wretched  and  forlorn ! 
There  is  no  resurrection-morn  for  them ; 


REGINA.  101 

And  they  will  be  forgotten,  long  ere  dust 
Is  lying  on  this  throbbing  heart  of  mine. 

0  restless  waters !     Some  brief  moments  since, 
And  ye  were  slumbering  as  infants  sleep. 

Now  the  swift  breeze  goes  rippling  o'er  your  breast, 
And  into  thousand  tiny  waves  ye  break, 
Mocking  the  moonbeams  in  your  sportive  play ! 
Ear-reaching  Ocean !  I  have  loved  thee  well ; 
But  thou  art  fickle,  treacherous,  and  false ; 
A  very  Proteus,  full  of  changes  swift. 

1  had  a  brother,  once,  a  fair  young  boy, 
Within  whose  eyes  sat  daring ;  on  whose  brow 
Pale  fear  had  left  no  impress.    He  was  aye 
Our  mother's  darling,  and  I  loved  him  more 
For  that  his  mood  was  little  kin  to  mine. 

He  was  a  lover  of  the  wild,  wild  sea, 
A  scorner  of  all  book-worms ;  yet  I  think 
He  loved  me  well  enough ;  but  then  he  was 
A  sometime  dreamer  in  his  quiet  moods. 

Leon.    I  care  not  if  youth  dream,  so  it  but  be 
Such  dreams  as  herald  greatness.    But  to  waste 
Life's  morning  in  inaction,  weaving  webs 
Of  folly,  soft  as  silk  from  Indian  looms, 
And  with  no  stamina;  ay,  this,  indeed, 
Were  forging  fetters  for  all  after  years, — 
Such  chains  as  those  wherewith  dull,  senseless  sloth, — 
A  worm  —  doth  eat  away  the  soul's  true  strength, 
And  leaves  it  barren  and"  unfruitful  all,  — 
A  dry  and  withered  tree. 

Velasquez.  Not  such  was  he. 

The  life  was  there,  a  fierce  and  restless  stream, 
And  all  his  dreams  were  rounded  into  action. 
I  was  of  other  mould.    I  loved  books, 
And  gleaned  from  them  the  language  of  all  souls 
That  there  have  written  worlds  ;  and  in  my  heart 
I  treasured  all  their  glamourye.     Days  came, 
When  nations  called  me  to  the  Council  Hall ; 
And  to  my  lips,  in  fierce  and  fiery  flow, 
Rushed  the  keen,  pointed  words.    Never  till  then,  — 
Never  till  then,  had  eloquence  so  swayed 
Contending  passions.     On  each  angry  brow 
Soft  smiles  descended,  and  hands  clasped  hands 
That  some  few  moments  since  had  only  met 
In  wild  and  bitter  struggle.    Leave  we  this. 
There  was  a  golden  morning  of  sweet  June ; 
A  day  that  touched  e'en  my  slew  veins  with  fire, 


102  ItEGINA. 

And  lured  me  from  my  books  to  breathe  the  air, 

That  swept  o'er  waving  fields  as  o'er  the  sea. 

My  brother  rushed  past  me  to  the  beach, 

His  golden  curls  flung  backward,  and  his  eyes 

Laughing  a  welcome  to  the  rising  breeze. 

With  eager  haste  he  caught  the  waiting  oars, 

And  urged  his  tiny  bark  far  o'er  the  wave. 

I  stood,  and  watched  him.    How  the  water  flew 

Before  that  sharpest  prow,  and  his  slight  arms 

Seemed  dowered  with  strength  to  ride  upon  the  deep. 

I  lingered  long ;  scarce  conscious  that  the  wind, 

So  tempered  late,  was  gathering  its  powers ; 

Till,  scattered  at  my  feet,  torn  branches  lay, 

And  the  white  foam  went  rushing  on  the  shore, 

Hissing  concordance  with  the  raving  wind. 

With  beating  heart,  I  glanced  far  out  to  sea, 

And  saw  my  brother  battling  with  the  storm, 

And  heard  the  ocean  roaring  for  its  prey, 

While  I  was  powerless,  and  could  not  save ! 

The  gallant  boy!     A  moment's  space  he  stood, 

His  fair  face  turned  unto  his  childhood's  home  : 

A  moment,  and  the  angry  waves  o'erleapt 

The  little  boat,  and  never  human  eye 

Looked  on  my  brother's  slender  form  again ! 

Our  mother —  see  !  yon  willow  waves  its  boughs 

Above  her  quiet  grave,  and  evermore 

The  song  of  ocean  floateth  o'er  her  rest 

As  if  it  held  no  dead.    Thou  treacherous  deep ! 

Look  how  it  smileth,  basking  in  the  rays 

Of  the  full  harvest  moon !    Out  on  these  tears ! 

My  brow  was  resting  on  my  Leon's  breast, 
And  when  I  looked  up,  Valasquez'  form 
Into  the  shadow  faded,  while  the  night 
Was  verging  on  its  noon.    A  pale  blue  flower, 
Snapped  by  his  hasty  step,  lay  at  my  feet, 
The  dull  dust  staining  all  its  velvet  leaves. 

It  seems  a  little  thing,  with  iron  heel 
To  grind  the  flowers  beneath  us  in  the  dust, 
And  yet  GOD  made  them !    Gentle,  lovely  things ! 
How  with  your  delicate  beauty  ye  bring  back 
To  the  old,  furrowed  earth  its  dew  of  youth, 
Till  her  worn  brow  looks  fresh  and  smooth  again 
And  to  our  weary  hearts,  what  are  ye  not? 
A  sweetness  and  a  glory  evermore ! 
The  child  doth  grasp  ye  with  its  tiny  hands, 
That  scarce  can  hold  the  tiniest  of  you  all, 


REGWA.  103 

Loving  your  changeful  hues.    Youth  breathes  the  love 
That  dares  not  speak,  with  offerings  of  flowers ; 
And  maiden-brows  that  know  not  summer  yet, 
Ye  deck  alike  for  bridal  and  for  bier! 
Methinks  that  when  the  High  and  Holy  One 
First  smiled  upon  the  world  that  he  had  made, 
Your  various  tribes  sprang  up  beneath  that  smile, 
To  fill  the  conscious  bosom  of  the  earth 
With  an  eternal  memory  of  bliss,  — 
A  shadow  of  GOD'S  smile  forevermore ! 

Enough  of  all  this  dreaming !  I  must  turn 
From  pleasant  fancies  unto  earnest  life. 
Fain  would  I  linger,  'mid  the  charmed  scenes 
That  made  one  brief,  bright  time  a  joy  for  aye; 
But  time  forbids;  and,  seraph,  in  thine  eyes, 
I  see  the  hour  draws  nigh,  when  this  fair  Earth, 
Still  so  fair,  shall  be  no  more  forever. 

Two  seasons  white  with  snow,  and  two  that  blushed 
With  summer's  wealth  of  roses,  passed  on. 
The  outer  world  knew  little  of  them  all; 
But  in  two  hearts  their  light  is  chronicled 
With  all  sweet  things  that  may  not  pass  away. 
Then  came  a  time  of  darkness,  —  days  that  saw 
The  pall's  cold  shadow  glooming  on  the  earth. 
Awhile  the  echo  of  a  child's  sweet  laugh 
Was  heard  amid  the  silence  of  my  heart ; 
Awhile  its  light,  free  steps  went  sounding  by, 
As  if  no  sorrow  could  arrest  its  speed; 
Awhile  soft  kisses,  on  my  pale  lips  pressed, 
Awoke  my  soul  with  thrillings  wild  and  deep; 
Awhile  all  these  things  were;  and  then  Death  came, 
Stilling  the  throbbing  of  that  little  heart! 
We  murmured  not.     We  knew  that  we  had  given 
An  angel  unto  God;  and  so  we  left 
With  bleeding  hearts,  yet  meek,  resigned  souls, 
The  shadow  of  our  beautiful  to  dust; 
And  our  sad  hearth  was  childless  evermore ! 

Ere  yet  the  grass  was  green  upon  that  grave, 
Dissension  sowed  its  seeds  through  all  the  land; 
Engendering  strifes  that  ripened  all  too  fast 
Into  most  bitter  fruits.     And  Might  put  forth 
Its  daring  hand  to  wrest  from  us  our  faith ; 
And  in  the  dust  to  trample  out  our  souls 
For  that  they  loved  freedom.     But  the  land 
Rose,  as  one  soul  did  animate  them  all, 


104  REGINA. 

To  meet  the  proud  aggressor.    As  the  gift 

Of  their  untrammelled  will,  they  placed  the  crown 

Upon  my  Leon's  brow.     'Twas  his  of  right, 

Since  it  had  rested  on  his  father's  head; 

And  when  again  a  living  brow  it  ringed, 

Uprose  the  battle-cry  of  former  days,  — 

"Viva  el  rey!" 

Men  armed  themselves  in  haste, 
And  in  groups  gathering,  questioned,  each  of  each, 
Above  what  plain  the  vulture  army  winged 
Its  dark,  predestined  flight.     "  We  know  not  yet,"  — 
Some  gravest  voices  murmured  in  the  crowd, 
—  "  But  yesternight  the  dark  and  serried  clouds 
Met  other  clouds  in  strife,  and  all  the  winds 
Were  tuned  to  battle-music.     O'er  the  hills, 
An  echo  floated  downward,  swiftly  borne, 
That  told  of  burning  cities,  tombless  dead ; 
And  in  the  council  hall  e'en  now  are  met 
The  rulers  of  the  land.     Some  talk  there  is 
Of  shapes  that  love  the  darkness,  and  go  forth 
Through  silence  of  the  night  to  make  themselves 
Haunts  in  our  quiet  homes.     Dark  traitors,  they, 
That  dread  the  daylight,  lest  the  sun  reveal 
The  blackness  of  their  souls." 

While  thus  they  spake, 
The  carved  pillows  of  the  Council  gate 
Rolled  backwards,  and  the  eager  crowd  rushed  in 
Panting  to  learn  what  manner  of  defence 
Had  been  resolved  on. 

Leon,  the  King, 

Sat  crowned  in  his  place,  and  him  around 
The  best  and  bravest  of  our  fair  Castile 
Sat  sternly  mute,  while  in  the  midst,  and  lone, 
His  clenched  hand  quivering  on  the  marble  stand, 
His  blue  eyes  flashing  out  a  lurid  light, 
Pale  Juan  Gomez  stood ;  the  while  the  king 
Struck  home  some  sharp  and  ringing  words  of  scorn 
That  had  a  sting. 

Leon.    I  call  thee  friend  no  more ! 
Go !  fling  the  dust  upon  thy  old  renown, 
And  to  the  silence  of  all  ages  leave 
Thy  heritage  of  shame !     Why  com'st  thou  here  ? 
Hence !  for  thy  country  owns  thee  not  as  son ; 
In  her  large  heart  there  is  no  room  for  thee. 
Away  with  thee !     Why  dost  thou  linger  still 
When  every  sword  is  thirsting  for  thy  blood? 


REGINA.  105 

And  but  for  some  poor  touch  of  ancient  love 
Twixt  mine  and  thine,  I'd  lot  them  loose  on  thee ! 

Juan  Gomez.    Nay ;  spare  thy  taunts.   I  go,  but  I  return ; 
And  when  the  foe  is  thundering  at  thy  gates 
The  bravest  hearts  in  all  Castile  shall  rue 
Most  bitterly  this  day.     And  then,  fair  sirs, 
If  on  this  threshold  Gomez  stand  again, 
Methinks  your  greeting  will  be  unlike  this, 
And  on  your  brows  will  rest  another  look, 
More  courteous  far.     If  there  be  any  here, 
Who  fain  would  know  how  ringeth  Gomez'  sword, 
Let  them  come  on,  and  try !     What !  not  a  word? 
Nay?  then  I  fling  back  coward  in  your  teeth; 
And  if  when  next  our  armies  meet  the  foe, 
My  banner  floats  not  on  Castilia's  side, 
Then  call  me  "  traitor,"  "  coward,"  —  what  you  will,  — 
I'll  never  question  why ! 

With  arm  outstretched, 

And  eyes  that  flashed  more  darkly,  as  the  crowd 
Of  people  swept  into  the  Council  Hall, 
Outspake  false  Gomez;  veiling  o'er  his  guile 
With  smooth,  deceitful  words. 

Juan  Gomez.  Hear  me,  people ! 

And  if,  when  having  heard,  ye  blame  me  still, 
I  will  bow  meekly  to  your  hearts'  decree 
Nor  murmur  at  my  fate.     If  I  have  wronged 
A  son  of  fair  Castile,  —  if  on  my  soul 
There  lies  one  stain  of  darkest  treachery, 
And  ye  can  plant  it  there,  —  then  let  me  go 
From  out  your  presence  as  the  vilest  slave 
That  e'er  defiled  the  earth !     If  I  have  sought 
By  word,  or  deed,  to  spoil  my  native  land, 
Then  send  me  forth  a  branded  traitor  knave, 
Or  slay  me  where  I  stand !     Ye  answer  nought; 
But  questioning  turn  to  where  your  king  doth  sit, 
As  if  to  ask  his  will.     Ye  are  not  slaves. 
Your  breath  did  place  him  there,  —  your  breath  can  take 
The  sceptre  —  crown  —  away.     What !  are  ye  mute  ? 
They  call  me  traitor  —  spy.     They  say  my  tongue 
Hatli  learned  the  cunning  of  another  land. 
I  fling  the  falsehood  back !     If  any  here 
Deserve  the  name  of  traitor,  'tis  your  king; 
And  on  his  head,  for  broken  faith  and  oath,  — 
And  on  his  head,  for  realm  and  hearth  betrayed, 
Be  all  your  vengeance  poured  f 


106  HE  GIN  A. 

,  As  at  the  cry 

Of  some  fierce  beast  of  prey  the  jackals  speed, 
So  did  the  artful  wording  of  that  man 
Arouse  the  populace ;  and  they  shouted  "  Death ! 
Death  to  the  traitor  king!  "  — 

The  few,  who  stood 

Beside  their  king,  had  drawn  their  ready  swords. 
He  waved  them  back,  and  reared  his  stately  form, 
And  with  uplifted  brow,  and  smiling  eyes, 
Strode  forward  some  brief  space,  flinging  aside 
The  slender  corslet  that  he  wore. 

Leon.  Lo !    I  cast 

The  last  frail  barrier  down ;  and  on  the  prey 
That  waits  your  hatred,  rush,  O  people  mine ! 

Serene  he  stood ;  smiling  to  meet  the  death, 
As  if  the  doom  were  only  joy  to  him. 
At  that  mild  aspect,  all  their  fury  died. 
"  Live,  live !  "  they  cried,  "  and  battling  by  thy  side 
We'll  prove  us  better  patriots,  than  if  hands, 
Yet  white,  were  dyed  to  crimson  in  thy  blood. 
Thou  art  no  traitor,  else  thy  cheek  had  paled 
When  all  the  people  shouted  for  thy  death. 
Live !  live !  and  we  will  make  this  hour's  shame 
A  lesson  for  our  future.     Nevermore 
Will  voice  of  ours  be  lifted  'gainst  thy  cause. 
Henceforth  'tis  ours  also,  and  we  will  pour 
The  last  pale  drop  of  blood  from  our  stout  hearts 
Ere  it  be  championless  !  "  — 

Leon.  Enough !     I  knew 

My  people  would  not  slay  me,  nor  forsake 
The  simple  creed  in  which  their  fathers  died. 
For  thee,  O  Gomez,  thou  hast  heard  thy  doom. 
Go,  and  return  no  more  !     We  love  not  much 
A  traitor  in  our  councils,  so  depart; 
And,  gentle  friends,  lay  no  hands  upon  him. 
Let  him  go  free.    We  will  not  touch  his  life. 

From  out  the  hall,  the  baffled  traitor  passed,  — 
From  out  the  hall,  where  never  more  his  shape 
Left  darkest  shadow ;  and  his  ancient  home 
Knew  him  no  more. 

There  were  no  woman-tears 
Poured  forth  like  rain-drops,  when  my  hero  went 
Unto  the  battle-field.     I  gaf*e  him  smiles 
And  high  and  hopeful  words,  and  bade  him  go ; 


REGINA.  107 

But  bring  me  back,  sole  thing  of  all  I  prized, 

The  heart  that  loved  me.     I  watched  him  pass 

Beyond  the  circle  of  my  yearning  eyes, 

Then  turned  to  weep  alone ;  yet  smile  the  while, 

To  think  he  nothing  knew  of  all  the  pain 

Fierce  gnawing  at  my  poor  and  fevered  heart. 

Mine  was  no  feeble  love,  to  falter,  fail, 

When  clays  that  called  for  strength,  and  marred  all  bloom, 

Rose  slowly,  darkly,  o'er  life's  horizon. 

Love  borrowed  strength  from  Love,  and  smiled  serene 

O'er  darkness  and  despair;  as  smiles  the  moon 

Through  rent  clouds  looking  on  a  stormy  sea, 

As  never  thence  the  cry  of  drowning  men 

Had  risen  unto  heaven.     I  could  not  rest 

Within  my  lonely  home,  and  so  I  went, 

Clothed  as  a  page,  to  join  the  armed  host, 

A  shadow  ever  at  my  Leon's  side; 

And  in  this  garb  I  followed  him  alvvay. 

I  guarded  him  as  only  Love  can  guard. 

I  stood  between  him  and  the  assassin's  knife 

In  that  dark  hour  when  Gomez  stained  his  soul 

With  thoughts  of  murder;  and  above  my  heart 

There  is  a  silent  witness  of  my  love, — 

A  crimson  scar  that  never  told  its  tale. 

An  eve  of  shadows.     All  the  forest  gloomed 
Beneath  the  darkness  of  o'erhanging  clouds,  — 
Thick  clouds  that  shut  the  dying  sun  from  earth; 
And  in  the  close  aisles  of  the  tangled  wood 
I  wandered  wearily.     My  thoughts  were  sad, 
For  I  had  learned  "that  Murder  was  abroad,  — 
That  in  my  Leon's  heart,  the  dagger's  point 
Would  soon  be  driven  home.     A  fevered  pulse, 
A  throbbing  of  unrest,  had  sent  me  forth 
From  the  wild  tumult  of  the  bivouac 
Into  the  hush  and  slumber  of  the  wood. 
My  roving  feet,  unconscious,  led  me  on, 
Till  every  sound  of  stirring  human  life 
Had  faded  into  distance  on  mine  ear. 
Then  rose  a  single  voice,  though  low,  distinct,  — 
A  voice  that  filled  the  empty  space  with  sound, 
And  thrilled  upon  my  heart.     Twas  that  of  one 
Upon  whose  fatal  hand  my  Leon's  life 
Hung  as  a  thread.     And  thus  he  spake;  and  still 
I  listened  eagerly. 

—  "I  sit  alone. 

Through  silence  and  through  darkness  of  the  night 
I  hear  a  soft  voice  singing  everniore 
The  same  sweet  song  that  in  my  sinless  days 


108  EEGINA. 

My  mother  sang  to  me.    Be  still,  sad  song! 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  me  with  thy  mournful  tones, 

Filling  the  pauses  of  my  memory 

With  a  reproachful  wail  o'er  wasted  life 

And  hours  unredeemed?     Why  coraest  thou  now 

To  wake  my  soul  with  a  vain  dream  of  home  ? 

I  hear  thy  music  ever,  all  night  long, 

And  through  the  busy  day  it  floats  alway. 

I  hear  thee,  and  a  vision  passes  by : 

A  shore  whose  air  is  faint  with  orange-blooms ; 

A  sun,  set  round  with  purple-tinted  clouds, 

Slow  sinking  down  upon  the  western  sea; 

And,  looking  on  all  this,  still,  patient  eyes,  — 

Soft  eyes  of  one  who  had  come  home  to  die. 

When  midnight  came,  I  stood  beneath  the  stars, 

An  atom  in  the  infinite !     What !  tears  ? 

Methought  their  fount  was  drained  long  ago ; 

Drained  by  the  fire  that  doth  sear  men's  souls. 

Tears  !  tears  !  could  ye  but  pour  a  flood  to  urown 

All  record  of  my  manhood,  I  would  bless 

The  olden  song  that  brought  the  healing  stream 

Up  from  its  sacred  source !     Enough  of  this ! 

Tears  make  not  ready  for  a  deed  of  blood, 

And  are  as  palsy  to  the  shaking  arm 

When  the  strong  hand  should  send  the  dagger  home !  "- 

A  voice  from  out  the  darkness  echoed  back 
The  last  word,  "home."    A  low,  sweet  woman's  voice, 
That  had  a  solemn  cadence  like  a  chime 
Sent  from  the  spirit-land.     Unto  his  knees 
It  bowed  the  conscience-stricken ;  and  he  flung 
The  glittering  dagger  in  the  still,  dark  pool 
That  gloomed  beside.     That  instant,  on  the  night, 
The  evening  chimes  rang  out,  "  Glory  to  God !  " 
And  on  the  trembling  soul  the  holy  words 
Smote  hard,  as  Moses'  rod  upon  the  rock, 
And  the  pure  waters  flowed  out  full  and  free,  — 
The  healing  stream  of  tears  ! 

The  work  was  done. 
Silent  I  came ;  as  silently  I  went ; 
My  full  heart  pouring  out  a  psalm  of  praise 
For  a  poor  soul  redeemed ! 

In  every  heart 

Lie  hid  the  germs  of  darkness  and  of  light, 
Of  darkness  leading  downward  to  the  dust  — 
Of  burning  light  that  looketh  aye  to  Heaven ; 
And  as  we  follow  either,  so  our  lives 


REGJNA.  109 

Grow  dark  as  night  —  a  night  without  a  star, 
Or  rich  in  splendor  as  the  cloudless  day ! 

A  day  of  battle  dawned,  —  of  fiercest  strife,  — 
And  I  was  far  away !    Leon  had  won 
From  my  pale  lips  a  pledge  to  rest  within 
The  silence  of  our  home,  while  he  went  forth 
Unto  that  darkest  field. 

Some  days  went  by,  — 

Long  days  that  aged  me  more  than  weary  years. 
There  came  no  tidings  from  the  armed  host; 
And  Rumor,  with  her  thousand  tongues,  awoke 
To  scatter  falsehood  as  youth  scatters  flowers. 
Sternly  I  schooled  my  fevered  heart  to  bear 
The  wasting  torture  of  that  dread  suspense, 
And  smiled  still !    I  knew  that  my  calm  brow 
Was  as  a  beacon  unto  every  eye ; 
And  so  it  told  no  tales  of  all  the  fears 
Thick  gathering  round  my  soul ;  and  I  moved  on, 
Through  the  dull  routine  of  this  daily  life 
As  death  could  never  reach  my  Leon's  heart, 
Nor  Victory,  flush  from  fields  of  battle  won, 
Desert  his  crowned  brow. 

Alas  for  smiles  I  — 

Too  soon  came  tidings  that  were  cold  as  death,  — 
A  tale  of  darkness  heralding  defeat ; 
And  the  poor  remnant  of  our  gallant  host 
Came  back  to  die  around  their  household  hearths. 
But  for  the  hearts  that  throbbed  so  high  yestere'en, 
Their  names  were  on  the  roll-call  nevermore. 
They  fought  as  heroes,  and  as  heroes  died, 
For  from  that  fatal  field  was  no  return, 
Save  for  a  few  who  round  their  king  kept  guard; 
And  they  returned  to  meet  another  doom,  — 
To  die  as  martyrs  die,  and  yield  their  souls 
Through  agony  to  God  ! 

One  struggle  more ! 

One  final  throe  ere  freedom  could  expire ; 
And  then !  —  and  then !  — 

The  royal  city  slept, 

While  on  its  walls  true  hearts  kept  watch  and  ward. 
Great  need  was  there  of  both ;  for  armed  hosts 
Hemmed  in  the  doomed  city,  and  we  knew 
That  death  was  nearer  unto  us  than  life. 
And  yet  we  faltered  not  in  our  poor  task 
But  bore  us  bravely;  while  on  each  pale  brow 
Sat  expectation,  as  a  buried  hope 
That  riseth  not  again.    Night  o'er  the  world 


110  KEG1NA. 

With  all  its  soothing  influences  reigned ; 

But  o'er  my  pulse  its  holy  spells  were  nought. 

A  fever  of  unrest  was  on  my  soul, 

And  the  still  night  was  rife  with  visionrie. 

It  brought  me  shadows  of  the  future  hour,  — 

Dark  thoughts  that  robbed  my  pained  eyes  of  sleep, 

And  dowered  me  with  gift  of  prophecy; 

Till  to  my  prescient  soul  the  coming  doom 

Was  as  a  written  scroll.     I  read  it  all ; 

And  then  the  terror  seized  upon  my  brain, 

And  swift  I  fled  unto  my  Leon's  side. 

He  stood  alone  upon  a  bastion's  verge 
That  loomed  majestic  o'er  the  vale  below; 
And  on  his  kingly  brow  there  slept  no  shade, 
And  in  his  eyes  there  sat  a  firm  resolve, 
Whereof  my  prescient  soul,  too  prophet-like, 
Knew  well  the  meaning.     All  the  future  rushed 
With  bitter  clearness  on  mine  aching  eyes. 
Vainly  I  flung  it  from  me,  —  vainly  strove 
To  shut  the  vision  and  the  terror  out. 
Darkly  it  loomed  before  me,  and  my  lips, 
Wan  in  their  agony,  slowly  moaned  forth 
"  Have  mercy,  Heaven!  "  —  and  my  Leon  heard. 

Leon.    Regina,  thou !    This  is  no  place  for  thee ! 
Tiiose  clasping  fingers,  I  can  read  them  well ; 
So  rest  thee  there,  sweet  wife.     My  heart  can  yet 
Thy  shield  and  buckler  be.     How  still  the  night ! 
The  moon  is  up ;  but  through  the  veil  of  mist 
Her  light  shines  dimly,  and  the  holy  stars 
Seem  blotted  from  the  sky.    There  breaks  no  sound 
Upon  the  dread  repose  of  that  dull  sea, 
The  sea  of  mist;  yet,  far  beneath  our  feet, 
The  quiet  vale  is  all  astir  with  life. 
The  foe  lies  there,  —  the  wary,  restless  foe; 
And  in  their  thought  to-morrow  seals  our  doom. 
To-morrow?    It  is  here  !     For  through  the  mist 
Float  rosy  shadows ;  and  the  golden  morn 
Of  our  last  day  is  breaking  on  the  world. 
Is  it  not  gloriously  beautiful  ? 

This  world  that  man  scarce  darkens  with  his  crimes; 
This  world  that  God  hath  made ! 

A  solemn  pause. 

The  kingly  brow  was  bared  unto  that  Name ; 
The  warrior-knee  was  lowly  bent  in  prayer ; 
And  as  he  knelt,  I,  silent,  looked  on  him. 
I  saw  the  angel  glory  in  his  eyes, 


REGTNA.  Ill 

The  will  so  firm,  the  meek  submission  too,  — 
I  saw  the  shadow  of  the  dread  To  Be,  — 
I  saw  the  doom ! 

Itegina.  Would  I  were  nearer  thee ! 

0  Leon,  best  beloved !     I  came  to  warn, 

To  counsel  flight,  to  share  thy  changing  fate. 
Nay,  frown  not,  thou !     I  know  thy  soul  is  brave ; 
But  couldst  thou  bear  the  prison  and  the  chain, 
The  torture  and  the  doom?    Oh,  I  have  seen 
Such  fearful  things  since  in  the  olden  time 
We  met  and  parted.     Death  was  everywhere 
Haunting  my  steps  as  it  my  shadow  were; 

1  could  not  fly  its  path.     And  now,  and  now,  — 
When  every  pulse  should  throb  for  thee  alone, — 
The  same  dark  shape  is  on  my  footsteps  still. 
Thou  dost  not  see  it.    To  thine  earnest  eyes 

It  brings  no  trouble.     On  thy  soaring  hopes 

It  flings  no  darkness.     I,  only,  see  it ; 

Feel  its  presence,  know  the  ending  near, 

And  yet  am  powerless !     Last  night,  the  spell 

Of  prescience  was  upon  me ;  and  I  saw, 

As  in  a  dream,  the  shadows  of  To  Be. 

Thick  darkness  was  upon  my  pained  eyes, 

And  through  its  curtain  lurid  flames  soon  broke, 

Revealing  phantom-shapes  that  to  and  fro 

Went  shudderiugly ;  moaning  out  sad  words 

That  had  no  meaning  to  me,  — yet  I  knew 

They  were  but  wailings  for  a  dying  world. 

The  end  of  all  things  was  at  hand ;  and  Earth 

Would  have  no  witness  to  its  agony, 

So  veiled  itself  in  night.     And  yet  I  saw,  — 

It  was  not  night  to  me.     Shadowy  shapes 

Loomed  up  through  shadows ;  things  that  had  no  form 

Came  flitting  by  me ;  but  I  marked  them  not, 

For  my  thoughts  were  full  of  thee.     Where  wert  thou? 

As  by  a  magic  word,  the  veil  of  night 

Was  drawn  aside ;  and,  on  my  awe-struck  gaze, 

A  city  rose  from  out  a  cloud  of  mist ; 

All  clear,  defined,  as  mountain-peaks  stand  out 

Against  a  wintry  sky.     Thou  knowst  it  well. 

It  sitteth  as  a  queen  on  seven  hills, 

And  all  the  world  are  vassals  at  its  feet. 

I  saw  it  in  my  dream  arrayed  in  blood, 

And  from  its  prison-cells  a  cry  went  up,  — 

"  How  long,  O  GOD  !  how  long !  "    Without  the  gates 

A  host  did  make  them  ready  for  a  feast,  — 

A  sacrifice  of  blood.    Leon !    Leon ! 


112  REGINA. 

Thou,  too,  werfc  there ;  and  on  thy  marred  brow 

lied  drops  stood  out  like  beads ;  and  thy  white  lips 

Were  set  in  firm  endurance  of  all  pain; 

And  I,  who  saw  thee  thus,  felt  in  ray  heart 

Each  pang  that  thou  hadst  borne.     And  must  this  be? 

Is  there  no  refuge  left?    No  hope  in  flight? 

Leon.  I  cannot  fly ! 

Regina.  Not,  Leon,  when  the  doom 

Prepared  for  thee  is  torture  and  the  stake? 
Dost  know  they  will  that  I  should  present  be? 
Oh,  spare  me  that !    How  could  I  look  and  live  ? 

Leon.    Is  this  poor  Earth  so  lovely  in  thine  eyes, 
That  but  to  win  some  brief  years'  longer  stay, 
Thou'dst  have  me  fly,  or  else  betray  my  GOD  ? 

Jlegina.    Not  that !    Not  that !    I'd  sooner  see  thee  die  I 

0  Leon,  husband,  pardon  these  poor  tears  ! 

1  shall  be  braver  when  the  terror  comes. 

But  now  to  lose  thee,  —  now,  — wlieu  all  my  dreams 
Had  rounded  into  so  much  happiness, 
And  all  the  world  was  smiling  at  my  joy ! 
Is  not  this  bitter?  —  turning  day  to  night  ? 
Nay,  look  not  thou  so  stern.    I'll  still  this  pain, 
And  shut  it  in  my  heart ;  so  nevermore 
It  burn  upon  my  lips ;  and  for  my  tears 
I'll  give  thee  only  smiles. 

Leon.  O  truest  wife ! 

Dost  see  how  our  old  dreams  of  earthly  crowns 
Were  mocking  shadows  all  ?    And  yet,  I  err ; 
For  still,  on  yon  dread  field,  a  time  of  strife 
Is  waiting  for  our  souls ;  and  Heaven  hath  crowns 
For  every  conqueror  there.     And  what  is  Earth, 
That  we  should  fear  to  leave  it?    What  our  life, 
When  in  the  future  God  doth  give  to  us 
A  Life  that  hath  no  death,  and  never  grave  ? 
What  is  Death  that  we  should  fear  it?     Darkness 
Clothing  the  body,  —  touching  not  the  soul,  — 
A  silent  shadow  by  the  life-tree  sitting,  — 
A  shape  that  follows  from  cradle  unto  grave,  — 
An  angel  on  whose  brow  a  star  is  shining, 
Veiling  the  sadness  in  his  holy  eyes,  — 
A  breath  from  GOD'S  own  spirit,  —  summoned, 
From  this  brief  life  to  Life  that  knows  it  not ! 
Look  up !  my  life.    Is  not  the  morning  here  ? 


RE GIN  A.  113 

The  clouds  are  lifting,  and  their  shadows  fade 
While  the  bright  sun  doth  shine  out  gloriously. 
And  see !  o'er  mountain-peaks,  serene  and  high, 
The  bow  of  promise  bends  ;  a  token  sweet 
That  smiles  shall  follow  quick  upon  our  tears. 

While  yet  he  spoke,  the  golden  morning  broke, 
And  gave  to  view  a  stately  bannered  host 
Set  in  array  of  battle  'gainst  our  walls ; 
And  what  had  we  of  gallant  souls  and  true 
To  stem  that  fearful  tide?    I  said,  but  now, 
The  royal  city  slept ;  the  words  had  weight. 
It  slept  the  sleep  of  death !    The  few  who  'scaped 
The  battle  doom  of  yesterday  had  borne 
Their  death-wounds  from  the  tield ;  and  in  the  night 
Their  souls  were  summoned  hence.    Each  at  his  post 
We  found  them  still,  guarding  in  death  the  land ! 
Yes !  they  were  gone,  —  sleeping  their  final  sleep  ; 
And  they  were  dwellers  in  the  Silent  Land 
While  yet  we  watched  for  morn.    Not  wildest  prayer, 
Not  life  for  life,  could  win  one  sleeper's  soul 
Back  unto  Earth  again ! 

Leon.  It  is  enough ! 

Man's  wrath  is  nought.     It  cannot  harm  them  now. 
And  we  can  bear  our  fate,  whate'er  it  be, 
With  calmer  brows,  than  if  these  franchised  hearts 
Still  lived  to  share  our  agony  and  death. 
Fling  wide  the  gates,  and  let  the  spoilers  in ; 
They  cannot  touch  the  dead ! 

JRegina.  And  Leon,  thou? 

Leon.    I  can  but  die !    It  matters  not  how  GOD 
Doth  call  the  spirit  home.     'Tis  but  one  pang, 
And  earth  can  claim  us  not ;  and  we  are  free, 
Dwellers  no  more  in  darkness,  but  in  light. 
Save  for  the  rending  of  some  closest  ties, 
Save  for  the  breaking  of  some  hearts,  —  it  is 
A  little  thing  to  die.    And  thou  —  mine  own  — 

I  saw  the  quivering  of  those  firm-set  lips  — 
I  felt  the  heaving  of  his  mighty  breast. 
"  Fear  not  for  me,"  I  cried ;  "  is  not  God  good? 
Will  he  not  guard  ?  "  — 

Leon.  God  love  thee,  my  true  wife ! 

8 


114  REG  IN  A. 

With  swiftest  feet  we  trod  the  silent  streets,  — 
Flung  back  the  massive  portals  so  to  give 
The  foe  free  entrance ;  and  we  then  went  up 
Unto  the  Council  Chamber,  there  to  wait 
The  coming  of  our  fate.     Far-off —  far-off  — 
We  heard  the  stirring  battle-music  break 
In  rolling  waves  of  sound;  and  through  it  all 
The  tramp  and  martial  clang  of  armed  men,  — 
A  proud,  victorious  host.     I  turned  mine  eyes 
Where,  far  below,  the  close  and  serried  ranks 
Pressed  onward  to  the  walls.     They  neared  the  gates. 
The  swelling  music  died  into  a  wail, 
Then  ceased;  and  with  bent  brows  and  paling  lips 
They  entered  on  the  void  and  voiceless  streets 
Where  absence  of  all  sound  seemed  to  proclaim 
A  city  of  the  dead !     Yet  on  they  came ; 
An  ocean-tide  when  at  its  time  of  flood, 
Filling  the  empty  streets  with  waves  of  life. 
I  watched  them  as  they  swept  upon  their  way, 
Nearer  and  yet  more  near!  then  turned  to  rest 
My  throbbing  heart  upon  iny  Leon's  breast, 
As  if  all  peace  and  safety  nestled  there. 

What  needeth  more?     Through  all  the  weary  day, 
The  rampant  army  feasted  in  the  halls 
That  death  had  left  so  cold  and  masterless. 
All  day  they  feasted.     When  the  evening  came, 
There  rose  a  stir  among  the  armed  band 
That  kept  a  watch  upon  the  Council  Hall, 
Our  prison-tower  now.     Some  briefest  words 
Taught  me  the  bitter  meaning  of  that  stir; 
Yet  I  spoke  not.     I  stood  apart,  silent; 
For  I  had  nerved  my  shrinking  soul  to  bear 
This  last,  most  sharp  of  earthly  agonies, 
That  so  I  could  smile  on  him  to  the  last. 
They  bore  him  from  mine  eyes ;  and  the  cold  night 
Crept  shudderingly  down  on  me.     I  knew  no  more 
Until  the  morning  glared  so  mocking  bright, 
And  then  I  shivered  back  to  life  again. 

The  year  was  in  its  summer  when  the  foe 
Did  hang  victorious  banners  on  our  walls, 
And  gave  them  to  the  breezes.     Roses  blushed 
In  every  palace-garden ;  and  the  vales 
Were  rich  in  sweetest  flowers.     Earth  and  sky 
Were  full  of  beauty,  but  we  saw  it  not. 
How  might  it  enter  in  our  lonely  cells? 
Flowers  love  the  sunshine ;    never  one  bright  ray 


REGINA.  115 

Might  smile  upon  our  darkness  !     All  the  light 

That  we  could  hope  to  have  was  but  a  shade 

Of  lesser  night,  that  crept  through  some  cold  bars 

We  knew  not  whence ;  and  did  but  serve 

To  make  the  darkness  terrible.     The  only  thing 

That  stirred  the  pulses  of  those  secret  cells 

Was  the  unending  drip  of  water-drops 

Upon  the  cold,  damp  floor.     Day  after  day 

The  ceaseless  drip  went  on.     But  little  sound 

It  made  when  first  we  heard  its  monotone; 

Daily  it  grew  more  loud ;  till  at  the  last 

The  brain  was  filled  with  its  dreariness, 

And  pained  unto  bursting.     Nay,  had  burst, 

But  that  one  night  a  peal  of  thunder  broke 

Above  our  dungeon,  and  the  lightning  smote 

The  mortised  rock,  and  gave  unto  our  eyes 

The  clouded  heaven  once  more.     The  rain- drops  fell 

With  magic  coolness  on  mine  aching  brows ; 

And  reason,  that  was  tottering  on  its  throne, 

Resumed  its  wonted  sway.     Not  long  to  me 

Was  left  that  wealth  of  clouds  and  cooling  rain. 

That  boon  was  all  too  precious,  for  a  heart 

That  dared  to  brave  its  gaolers'  ire,  and  keep 

Its  faith  untainted  still.     That  far-off  gleam 

Of  the  blue  heaven,  and  the  few  bright  stars 

That  smiled  on  me  at  night,  through  the  rent  roof 

And  shattered  wall  of  stone,  was  all  too  much 

For  such  a  thing  as  me ;  and  so  they  bore 

My  drooping  form  unto  a  closer  cell, 

Against  whose  outer  wall  the  freest  winds 

Might  play  at  will.     They  might  not  enter  in, 

Though  there  a  living  creature  pined  and  prayed 

For  one  pure  breath  of  air.     And  pined  in  vain ; 

For  if  the  boon  were  granted,  'twas  with  such 

Accompaniment  of  fearfullest  things 

As  made  my  very  soul  in  torture  writhe. 

I  tell  thee,  seraph,  in  thy  blessed  home 
Thou  knowst  no  terror  of  that  awful  shape 
Which  mouldeth  human  hearts  to  mock  all  ties 
Of  sweet  humanity.    From  out  my  cell  — 
Where  life  did  sleep  —  dost  know  they  brought  me  forth, 
And  made  me  look  on  scenes  that  only  fiends 
Could  prompt  wherewith  to  wring  a  woman's  heart ; 
And  I  had  been  a  mother  —  was  a  wife !  — 
A  wife !  there  spoke  the  spell  that  conquered  me. 
If  e'er  mine  eyes  were  closed  unto  the  sights 
That  made  my  heart  to  bleed ;  if  e'er  mine  ears 


116  REGINA. 

Were  shut  to  moans  that  could  not  be  repressed,  — 
They  whispered  "Leon,"  and  my  soul  was  crushed, 
Stibmiss  and  patient  to  their  cruel  will. 
The  GOD  who  giveth  strength  unto  the  oak 
Doth  dower  therewith  the  frailest  flower  also ; 
Or  childhood  had  not  borne  with  unmoved  front 
The  same  fierce  agony  that  paled  man's  lip 
With  its  too  real,  but  unspoken  torture. 
Yea,  they  gave  children  — young  and  tender  things 
That  smiled  upon  you  with  their  loving  eyes  — 
To  the  sharp  mercy  of  the  living  flames, 
Nor  shuddered  at  their  work !  I  blessed  GOD 
Tor  that  my  child  went  home  so  long  ago ; 
And  prayed  that  strength  to  Leon  and  myself 
Might  still  be  given,  so  to  bear  the  fate 
I  knew  must  close  the  measure  of  our  lives. 

The  year  was  dying.    Last  of  all  the  years 
That  Earth  had  counted  since  the  primal  morn 
When  all  the  morning  stars  together  sang 
Sweet  praises  of  the  world  that  GOD  had  made. 
The  year  was  dying;  and  its  pallid  brow 
Was  frosted  over  by  the  coming  death ; 
The  death  that  never  more  might  reckon  Time 
Among  its  victims.    The  year  was  dying ; 
Death  was  in  the  world;  and  yet  the  nations 
Sinned  on,  unconscious  of  the  day  of  doom. 
Though  —  told  by  thousands  upon  every  shore  — 
Pale  corses  strewed  the  Earth,  and  floated  thick 
On  the  sick  waters  of  the  loathing  Sea. 
Dispeopled  cities,  lying  waste  and  lone ;  — 
Wrecks  of  lost  nations,  holding  once  a  place 
Amid  the  mightiest  of  the  earthly  realms, 
But  scattered  now  and  nameless ;  —  ruined  shrines  — 
(Worshipped  and  worshippers  alike  were  dust), 
That  yet  polluted  Earth  with  memories ;  — 
All  these,  and  more  than  these,  were  fearful  types 
To  herald  forth  the  doom ;  and  yet,  none  saw, 
None  heard,  nor  heeded ;  and  the  world  went  on 
Its  olden  way  of  sinning,  and  to  sin. 
Yet  had  it  known  some  fearful  judgments.     Lands  — 
Whose  habitants  had  drained  sin's  bitter  cup 
Unto  the  very  dregs,  and  so  shut  out 
All  thoughts  of  good  —  had  from  the  face  of  Earth 
Been  blotted  as  a  scroll.    Cities  that  rose 
To  power  and  glory,  through  long  lapse  of  years, 
Waxed  proud  with  growth,  and  in  their  leprous  sin 
Forgot  the  hope  of  heaven,  and  knew  not  GOD; 


KEGIXA.  117 

So  perished  in  their  darkness ;  and  the  world 

Found  them  no  more !     These  things  had  surely  been; 

But  the  blind  nations  took  not  home  such  truths. 

They  saw  no  warning  in  the  cities  struck 

From  off  the  roll  of  Earth.     They  gave  no  heed 

Unto  the  prophet-voices  of  the  past. 

Famine  —  plague  — that  decimated  nations, 

Were,  in  their  darkened  vision,  little  less 

Than  vanity ;  a  little  more  than  dreams ! 

All  ancient  shrines  were  desecrate  with  blood ; 

And  altars  were  not  holy  any  more. 

The  living  had  no  faith  save  that  which  yields 

Homage  unto  idols.     The  dead  went  down 

To  silence  and  to  dust,  and  had  no  hope  ! 

And  very  few  the  souls  that  in  the  world 

Yet  knew  and  loved  GOD  !     The  Earth  was  ripe 

And  ready  for  destruction ;  —  full  of  sin. 

The  pleasant  Earth,  that  GOD  had  made  so  fair 

And  called  "good,"  was  as  a  fearful  blot 

Upon  the  stormy  scutcheon  of  the  skies. 

Soon  GOD  will  wipe  it  out;  and  it  shall  be 

No  more  a  dwelling  unto  Sin  and  Death ! 

The  year  was  dying;  and  a  word  went  forth 
From  out  the  City  of  the  Seven  Hills 
Summoning  all  men  unto  a  sacrifice,  — 
A  holocaust  of  blood,  what  time  the  year 
Was  breathing  out  its  life.     The  hour  came ; 
And  to  the  dread  arena  gathered  fast 
The  children  of  the  world ;  a  race  as  cold 
And  full  of  guile,  as  if  from  Satan's  realm 
They  rose  to  darken  Earth.     I,  too,  was  there  : 
To  suffer,  and  be  patient  as  of  yore. 

Slowly  the  red  day  dawned,  —  the  day  of  days,  — 
The  last  of  all  the  years.     Slowly  it  dawned ; 
And  Earth,  whose  brow  but  now  was  dusk  and  wan, 
Flushed  red  as  blood  in  the  hot,  lurid  glare 
Of  the  late  risen  sun.    The  hours  wore  on. 
Slowly  the  multitudes  gathered ;  and  the  day 
Was  verging  on  its  noon,  ere  yet  they  called 
The  victims  forth  unto  the  funeral  pyre. 
They  came  at  last,  —  a  glorious  martyr-band ; 
Some,  paler  than  the  marble  that  they  trod, 
And  swaying  like  the  reeds.     Oh !  wlio  shall  say 
How  much  the  human  frame  may  bear,  yet  live  ? 
Or  who  shall  say  unto  the  weary  brain, 
"  Thus  far,  and  no  farther,"  when  these  had  borne 


118  REGINA. 

All  tortures  that  man's  cruel  art  could  bring 

To  bear  alike  on  body  and  on  soul? 

Their  souls  had  conquered  pain,  and  smiled  serene 

From  heights  man's  malice  sought  in  vain  to  reach. 

And  now  they  came,  with  painful  steps,  and  slow, 

Once  more  into  the  sunshine,  but  to  die ! 

Death  had  no  sting,  —  no  terrors  left  for  them. 

Smiles  lit  each  patient  brow,  and  in  their  eyes 

A  strange,  deep  joy  was  burning,  as  a  star 

To  light  them  to  their  home. 

He,  too,  was  there ; 

Mine  own  true  Leon ;  yet  I  trembled  not. 
I  knew  that  we  were  treading  the  same  way. 
I  knew  that  some  poor  moments  were  the  all 
Between  our  souls  and  heaven.     Heart  answered  heart, 
And  on  our  lips  there  was  a  voiceless  prayer. 
God  heard  it. 

In  the  North,  a  cloud  uprose. 
Slowly  it  gathered  strength.     Far  off —  far  off — 
I  saw  its  shadow  darkening  over  Earth, 
And  knew  it  was  the  Avatar  of  doom. 
But  the  blind  multitudes,  they  saw  it  not. 
Their  gaze  was  on  the  dark  arena  bent, 
Eager  to  look  on  Death ;  unconscious  all 
That  Death  was  waiting  for  his  triumph  hour, 
Sure  that  it  would  not  fail !     A  rush  of  winds, 
As  hot,  and  dry,  and  burning  as  they  came 
Fresh  from  Sahara's  desert ;  then,  o'er  all 
The  darkness  fell,  as  thick,  impervious  night, 
Shutting  the  red  sun  out.     Earth  opened  wide 
Her  heaving  bosom,  and  the  city  fell 
A  ruin  in  that  grave ;  fierce  tongues  of  flame 
Lapping  her  fallen  towers.     A  bleeding  form 
Had  caught  me  up,  and  borne  me  from  the  death; 
And  I  was  resting  on  a  green  hill-side ; 
While,  far  below,  a  black  and  hideous  gulf 
Yawned  where  the  City  of  the  Seven  Hills 
Had  late  in  glory  stood.     Through  all  the  world 
One  word  went  sounding  as  the  breath  of  doom, 
And  mercy  there  was  none.     The  beautiful 
Had  perished,  and  her  place  was  desolate,  — 
Her  crown  had  passed  away. 

I  turned  aside. 

My  Leon's  form  was  bleeding  at  my  feet, 
And  from  that  truest  heart  the  tide  of  life 
Was  ebbing  slowly  —  slowly.     Me  he  saved ; 
For  me  his  life  was  given.     On  my  breast 
I  laid  that  palest  brow,  and  patient  saw 


RE  GIN  A.  119 

The  death-dew  lying  there.     I  was  alone, 
Watching  the  shadows  vanish.     My  last  hope 
Was  fading  from  me,  as  a  lonely  leaf 
Borne  out  to  ocean  by  receding  tides, 
And  never  brought  to  shore !     I  could  but  fold 
My  patient  hands  in  prayer,  and  silent  watch 
The  ebbing  of  his  life.     A  breath  of  wind 
Touched  my  hot  brow  to  coolness ;  and  a  dream 
Of  soft,  warm  skies,  of  summer,  and  of  song, 
Came  floating  by  me  as  on  angel's  wings. 
I  heard  the  rippling  on  the  pebbly  shore ; 
I  saw  the  sun  gleam  on  the  river's  breast ; 
I  felt  a  kiss  pressed  soft  upon  my  brow, 
And  murmured  "Mother!  "    In  a  little  space 
The  vision  faded,  and  the  silence  fell 
Again  upon  my  soul.     In  all  the  wrorld 
There  was  no  sound  upon  that  hush  to  fall, 
Save  the  dull  throbbing  of  my  beating  heart. 
In  all  the  world  there  was  no  life  save  mine ! 
He  had  gone  from  me  in  that  passing  dream, 
And  left  me  lonely;  waiting  with  still  soul 
The  solemn  presence  of  the  Summoner. 
The  Earth  is  rolled  together  like  a  scroll, 
And  through  the  shadows  I  look  down  on  dust, 
That  once  was  life  and  beauty. 

Holy  One,  — 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  whose  folded  wings 
My  soul  is  gathering  its  strength  to  try 
The  unknown  pathway  to  yon  blessed  land,  — 
Father  in  Heaven  !     I  yield  me  to  thy  will ; 
And  meekly  as  a  child,  upon  thy  love 
I  rest  my  weary  soul.     Be  with  me  now. 
Uphold  me,  lest  I  falter,  as  my  way 
Leads  through  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death. 
Thou  art  All  Good,  All  Merciful,  O  God! 
I  rest  on  thee  !     "  O  Death,  where  is  thy  sting? 
O  Grave,  where  is  thy  victory  ?  " 

CHORUS  OF  ANGELS. 

"  Slow  the  world  is  dying —  dying; 
And  the  shadow  and  the  gloom 
Over  earthly  things  is  lying; 
All  doth  mingle  in  the  tomb 

That  is  aye  dust's  destiny. 
From  the  silence  and  the  dread, 

From  the  fierce-destroying  wave, 
From  the  company  of  dead, 


120  THE  "PACIFIC"  LOST  AT  SEA. 

From  the  darkness  of  the  grave, 
God  hath  redeemed  thee ! 

' '  Earth  is  fading ;  Earth  is  mourning 

O'er  its  beauty  and  its  bloom ; 
Unto  Chaos  all  returning, 
Buried  in  one  common  tomb, 

Silent  for  eternity ! 
Give  thou  glory  to  the  Father! 

Child  of  earth,  the  gulf  is  passed ; 
And  around  thee  angels  gather ; 
Thou  art  free,  O  soul,  at  last ; 
God  hath  redeemed  thee ! 

"  God  hath  redeemed  thee! 

All  glory  be  to  Him, 
The  Holy  One,  beneath  whose  eye 
Dwell  cherubim  and  seraphim 

Through  all  eternity. 
From  a  world  whose  loss  is  gain, 

From  the  dust  where  dust  doth  rot, 
From  the  endless  torture-pain, 
From  the  worm  that  dieth  not, 
God  hath  redeemed  thee !  " 


"  Pacific "  Host  at 

O  SEA  !  whose  restless  waters  now  are  sleeping 

In  the  soft  sunshine  of  the  early  spring, 
Dost  hear,  upon  a  thousand  shores,  the  weeping 
Of  some  poor  hearts  who,  faithful  still,  are  keeping 
Alive  some  hope  that  should  be  withering  ? 

O  Sea,  thou  smilest,  and  thy  great  heart,  beating, 

Hath  not  one  tremble  for  the  mourners  pale 
Who  cling  so  wildly  to  the  hope  of  meeting 
Again  on  earth  their  lost  ones,  —  all  uuweeting 
How  brief  their  record,  and  how  sad  their  tale! 

" Dust  unto  dust"  is  but  a  saddest  saying, 

When  from  our  eyes  the  loving  pass  away ; 
But  ice  have  watched,  'mid  tender  care  and  praying, 
The  wasting  form,  and  kept  from  darkest  straying 
The  soul  that  hath  gone  upward  unto  day. 


"CUKISTE   ELEISON."  121 

Our  eyes  have  met  the  last  look  of  the  dying; 

Our  lips  have  rested  on  their  palest  brow; 
Our  ears  have  heard  their  last  of  earthly  sighing; 
And  on  the  quiet  grave  where  they  are  lying 

Our  hands  may  scatter  sweetest  flowers  now. 

But  when,  O  Sea !  unto  thy  sternest  keeping 

The  loved  and  loving  of  the  earth  go  down, 
We  see  them  never  more,  and  all  our  weeping 
Doth  only  bring  them  from  that  ocean-sleeping 
Our  midnight  dreams  with  mocking  shapes  to  crown. 

O  Sea!  remorseless, — flowing  on  forever, 

What  is  our  wailing  and  our  moan  to  thee  ? 
Thou  renderest  back  no  gift;  returnest  never 
The  life  that  storms  crushed  out ;  and  wide  dost  sever 
The  dust  of  hearts  that  in  one  grave  should  be. 

Roll  on,  0  Sea!  in  thousand  billows  breaking; 

Not  long  shall  thy  vast  deeps  a  mystery  be. 
The  dead,  who  in  thy  caves  repose  are  taking, 
Shall  from  their  stillest  slumber  rise  awaking 

Unto  the  words,  "  Give  up  thy  dead,  O  Sea!  " 


CHRISTE  eleison !  for  we  are  sleeping 
The  sluggard's  slumber,  when  we  should  arise 

From  our  dull  sloth  ;  and,  faithful  vigils  keeping, 
Prepare  our  souls  to  seek  the  upper  skies. 
Christe  eleison ! 

Alas!  the  world  — its  toils  around  us  clinging  — 
Doth  give  no  stamina  unto  our  soul ; 

We  hear  its  siren  voices  ever  singing 
A  song  that  lures  us  to  a  darker  goal. 

Christe  eleison ! 

Yet  home,  and  home  affections  they  should  gather 
Our  wandering  hearts  unto  the  better  way ; 

Should  teach  us  ever  of  the  eternal  Father, 
And  bow  our  spirits  to  his  gentle  sway. 

Christe  eleison ! 

The  dust  is  erring,  and  forgetful  ever; 

It  knoweth  life ;  life's  end  it  cannot  see. 
O  Father!  hear  us,  and  forsake  us  never; 

There  is  no  hope,  no  refuge  save  in  thee. 

Christe  eleison ! 


122  "COMING  HOME  TO  DIE." 

When  earth  is  fading  from  onr  darkened  vision, 
And  slowly  shadows  gather  on  our  way, 

Then  through  the  echo  of  a  world's  derision, 
May  we  but  pray,  and  in  our  praying  say, 

Christe  eleison ! 

When  foes  do  scorn  our  mournful  plain  and  weeping, 
And  earthly  joys  are  parting  like  a  dream; 

When  our  beloved  in  stillest  rest  are  sleeping, 
And  on  our  stricken  hearts  no  light  cloth  beam ; 
Christe  eleison ! 

When  life  is  passing,  and  our  soul  doth  gather 
Its  all  of  strength  to  tread  the  unknown  way ; 

Be  thou  our  guide,  —  a  tender,  loving  Father,  — 
And  teach  our  poor  hearts  evermore  to  pray 
Christe  eleison ! 


"  Comimj  ?^0me  to  ©u." 

THERE  is  a  fever  burning  at  my  heart, 
A  silent  summons  to  depart, 

And  yet  I  cannot  go ! 
For  me  earth  wears  its  robes  of  beauty  yet, 

Its  brow  with  tears  hath  not  been  wet,  — 
Brightly  its  waters  flow ! 

My  heart  hath  known  no  shadow  of  despair, 

My  life  lies  stretched  before  me,  fair 

As  morning's  cloudless  sky. 

Fond  hopes,  bright  dreams,  that  might  a  lifetime  crown, 
Are  by  one  breath  flung  sudden  down ; 
For  I  come  home  to  die ! 

To  die !     Low  falls  the  utterance  of  that  word ; 
A  death-sigh  in  its  echo  heard, 

A  cadence  of  farewell. 

And  yet,  what  are  we  when  they  fling  the  clay 
Upon  us?    Things  of  yesterday, 
That  went  far  off  to  dwell. 

Shadows  are  calling  to  my  restless  soul,  — 
Shadows  that  beckon  to  the  goal 

Where  the  dust  meets  the  dust, 
I  have  no  fear.    I  do  not  dread  to  go,  — 
But  parting  pains  the  spirit  so; 
Yet  part  we  do,  and  must. 


A    PRAYER   ANSWERED.  123 

For  I  come  home  to  die !    My  own  fair  home, 
Again  unto  thy  hearth  I  come ; 

Never  to  leave  it  more, 
Save  for  the  dwelling  that  is  dark  and  lone ; 

A  rest,  when  life's  last  work  is  done, 
Life's  "  fitful  fever"  o'er. 

The  day  is'fading,  and  the  sun  hath  set; 
My  life  is  passing,  too ;  and  yet 

I  am  so  young  to  die ! 

Be  still,  poor  heart!     What  need  is  there  to  weep? 
"  God  giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 
So  wait  thou  patiently. 


FATHER  !  be  with  us  now !     The  shadow  lies 
Upon  our  quiet  hearth ;  the  shadow  dread 

That  yet  may  darken  over  closed  eyes,  — 
That  yet  may  shroud  the  dead. 

Our  hearts  keep  silence  in  unspoken  fear; 

We  dare  not  ask  each  other  of  the  thought 
That  broodeth  there,  lest  haply  some  swift  tear 

Be  with  our  meaning  fraught. 

Father !  be  with  us  now !    The  very  air 
Though  fresh  and  cool  it  sweep  athwart  our  brow, 

Seems  laden  with  the  gaspings  of  despair. 
Father !  be  with  us  now ! 

We  know  that  thou  art  gracious,  and  we  rest 
Our  weary  souls  upon  thy  promise  fair. 

Earth  hath  but  silence  in  her  mighty  breast ; 
Thou  dost  silence  despair ! 

Father !  be  with  us  now !    And  not  for  sin  — 
Though  on  our  garments  fair  its  hue  of  red 

Is  darkly  lying  —  let  the  death  come  in. 
As  yet,  we  have  no  dead ! 

Our  household  hearth  hath  never  given  up 
Unto  the  dust  one  warm  and  throbbing  heart ; 

We  have  not  drained  that  sad  and  bitter  cup 
Whence  smiling  doth  depart. 


124  WIN  ON  A. 

Father!  be  with  us  now!  for  thou  canst  save, 
Let  not  the  earth  be  filled  with  our  moan; 

Let  not  our  loved  go  down  unto  the  grave 
Leaving  our  dwelling  lone. 

And  thou  hast  been  with  us.  O  Holy  One ! 

The  shadow  hath  departed  from  our  hearth; 
The  cloud  hath  lifted,  and  the  fear  hath  gone 

That  darkened  o'er  the  earth. 

Tor  thou  didst  hear  our  prayers,  and  gavest  back 
The  soul  we  thought  was  hastening  far  away 

Upon  the  lone  and  unreturning  track 
That  knovveth  not  our  day. 

Father!  be  with  us  ever;  so  to  keep 

Our  feet  from  straying,  and  our  souls  from  wrong. 
We  know  thou  dost  not  slumber,  nor  yet  sleep; 

Be  with  us,  all  day  long ! 

And  when  the  night  shall  come,  —  as  come  it  must,  - 
And  we  lie  down  unto  our  last,  long  sleep,  — 

When  o'er  our  graves  sounds  "  dust  unto  the  dust," 
Do  thou  our  spirits  keep ! 

And  in  the  other  world,  where  soul  meets  soul, 
And  Love  is  Love's  eternal  shield  and  guard, 

Whence  all  thy  children  see  the  darkness  roll,  — 
Be  thou  our  "  sure  reward  " ! 


OTmona. 

THEY  err,  who  say  our  land  hath  no  romance  : 

"Blue  though  your  sky,  free  though  your  waters  glance, 

They  have  no  spell  of  olden  days  to  shed 
A  mystery  around  them.    All  your  tale 
Is  but  the  sighing  of  a  passing  gale. 

Ye  have  no  history,  — ye  have  no  dead !  " 

Such  words  are  spoken,  but  they  err  who  speak. 
Where'er  a  thought  hath  crimsoned  woman's  cheek, 

Or  stilled  the  life-throb  bounding  in  her  veins ; 
Where'er  a  noble  deed  claimed  human  hand, 
Or  men  have  perished  for  their  native  land, 

A  poet  finds  fit  theme  for  all  his  strains. 


WINONA.  125 

Tis  true ;  that  in  our  century  of  years  — 

A  life-time  shadowed  out  by  hopes  and  fears  — 

We  claim  no  heritage  of  old  renown. 
Our  boast  is  but  .of  deeds  our  sires  have  done, 
Of  fetters  broken,  and  of  freedom  won. 

We  have  no  tales  of  temple  or  of  crown,  — 

Whereto  the  willing  fancy  lendeth  ears. 
Not  ours  the  long  array  of  countless  years 

Crimsoned  with  war,  and  darkened  by  old  feud. 
We  have  nor  fallen  towers,  nor  ruined  shrine. 
The  halo  sleeping  upon  Palestine 

Rests  never  on  our  mountains,  vales,  nor  flood. 

Yet  have  we  battle-fields  whereon  the  brave 
Laid  down  to  slumber,  finding  but  a  grave 

Which  yet  was  dearer  than  a  life  of  chains ; 
And  scenes  of  strife,  where  our  star-banner  rose 
Victorious,  o'er  the  dark  array  of  foes 

Who  vainly  gave  the  life-blood  from  their  veins 

To  check  our  giant  strides  for  freedom's  goal. 
And  such  the  themes  that  light  a  poet's  soul 

With  purer  flame  than  if  old  Europe  gave 
Her  wealth  of  storied  crime  and  high  renown,  — 
Her  thousand  tales  of  temple  and  of  crown,  — 

To  fill  the  measure  of  each  studied  stave. 

There  are  who  say  that  no  romance  have  we,  — 
That  some  brief  tales  of  hard-won  liberty 

Are  all  that  we  may  glean  from  passed  years. 
They  err,  who  speak.    "There's  not  a  flowing  stream, 
Nor  yet  a  haunt  whereon  the  sun  doth  gleam, 

But  hath  its  own  old  tale  of  loves  or  fears. 

Around  Montaup  the  glamour  lingers  still; 
King  Philip  haunts  his  own  beloved  hill ; 

And  far  away,  in  the  fair  land  of  flowers, 
Where  nature  in  her  bounty  doth  rejoice, 
Memories  of  Osceola's  soft,  low  voice 

Yet  sadly  blend  with  sighing  evening  hours. 

Ohio's  waters  have  full  many  a  tale, 
And  every  rushing  of  the  western  gale 

Doth  chant  some  half-forgotten  deed  of  yore ; 
While  Mississippi,  in  its  mighty  wave, 
Doth  shroud  the  beauty  of  a  maid,  who  gave 

Unto  its  depths,  a  heart  that  hoped  no  more, 


12G  W1NONA. 

Towards  the  regions  of  the  setting  sun 
A  world  our  eyes  have  never  looked  upon 

Is  filling  slowly  with  the  waves  of  life, 
Whose  onward  flow  hath  swept  old  landmarks  down; 
Crushing  memorials  of  old  renown 

Won  'mid  the  ravage  of  some  border  strife. 

A  land,  far-spreading  to  the  setting  sun ; 
A  mighty  river,  that  doth  swiftly  run 

Unto  the  confines  of  a  soundless  sea ; 
Tall  trees,  beneath  whose  shadow  things  of  old 
Are  slowly  wasting,  blending  with  the  mould ; 

A  sky,  o'erarching  all  eternally. 

Up  from  that  river's  cool  and  darkened  breast, 
A  cliff  doth  rear  its  stern  and  rugged  crest, 

With  beetling  brow,  o'erglooming  the  still  wave. 
Thick  o'er  its  sides  the  tangled  forest  grows 
With  rustling  foliage,  troubling  the  repose 

That  should  lie  sleeping  on  a  maiden's  grave. 

A  maiden's  grave  —  a  woman's  breaking  heart, 
That  could  not  live  and  see  its  dreams  depart, 

Hath  here  found  silence  and  forgetfuluess. 
It  could  not  bear  the  burthen  of  its  woe ; 
So  o'er  that  restless  heart  the  waters  flow. 

No  more  it  throbs  for  weeping  or  to  bless. 

Vows  early  plighted,  and  a  fond  heart  given 
Unto  the  love  that  seemed  true  as  heaven; 

A  brief,  glad  season  following  thereon ; 
A  fairer  face,  that  crossed  her  path  in  life ; 
A  change,  with  bitterest  agony  rife ; 

A  lover  false  who  fled,  but  not  alone. 

Alas,  Winona!     All  thy  young  heart  sent 
Of  love,  of  gladness,  and  of  full  content, 

A  precious  venture  upon  life's  wide  sea, 
Was  wrecked  before  the  sharp  and  sudden  blast ; 
And  all  thy  fond  hopes,  crushed  and  dying,  cast 

Upon  a  shore,  drear  as  thy  destiny. 

Alas,  for  breaking  of  a  maiden's  dream ! 
Sweet  flowers  flung  upon  a  rapid  stream 

Fleet  not  so  swiftly  as  the  hope  that  flies 
From  out  the  future  of  a  loving  heart 
When  falsehood  blights  its  glory.    All  time's  art 
Brings  rarely  sunshine  when  the  love-hope  dies. 


"  PRIEZ   POUR   LES  MALHEUREUX."  127 

What  necdeth  more?    'Tis  but  an  old  time  tale. 
The  moan  of  waves,  the  sighing  of  the  gale 

Are  not  more  changes  of  our  daily  life 
Than  is  the  ringing  of  that  bitter  chime 
Which  bears  a  loving  heart  before  its  time, 

Unto  the  resting  from  all  earthly  strife. 

What  needeth  more  ?    The  Indian  maiden  gave 
Her  waning  beauty  to  the  quiet  wave, 

There  finding  rest  that  knew  not  human  love. 
Self-sought  her  doom.     What  matter  unto  her 
How  slept  her  heart,  when  never  it  might  stir 

Unto  a  loving  eye  that  watched  above  ! 

Quietly  she  sleepeth.     The  false  one  now 
Sees  never  shadow  resting  on  her  brow; 

Hears  never  wailing  from  that  broken  heart. 
And  in  the  world  where  the  freed  spirit  dwells, 
There  sounds  no  echo  of  the  earth-farewells, 

And  earthly  love  is  as  a  thing  apart. 

Old  days  have  been  forgotten,  like  a  dream; 
Old  things  are  passing,  as  the  rays  that  stream 

Soft  on  the  waters,  ere  the  sun  departs ; 
Old  names  yet  linger,  as  memorial-stones 
That  for  a  time  may  cover  o'er  the  bones 

Of  the  great  dead,  or  rest  upon  their  hearts. 

Old  names  yet  linger,  and  old  legends  still 
Make  haunted  places  of  each  vale  and  hill 

That  knoweth  yet  the  Red  Man's  gliding  feet ; 
And  Mississippi  on  its  restless  shore 
Hears  yet  the  murmur  of  the  olden  lore 

That  hath  no  voice  where  mart  and  city  meet. 


"  -|jh«j  pour  Us  maljjeurntx." 

I  WAS  in  France.     The  morning  sun  was  low; 
And  all  my  steps  were  weary,  faint,  and  slow ; 

I  had  been  journey  ing  the  long  night  through, 
When,  by  the  road-side,  from  the  velvet  grass 
A  cross  did  rear  itself.     Pause,  ere  you  pass, 

And  let  its  rude  inscription  meet  your  view  : 
"  Priez  pour  les  malkeureux." 


128  CONSUMPTION. 

Alone  it  stood,  defined  against  the  sky, 
As  if  it  only  looked  up  on  high, 

And  nothing  had  in  common  with  the  dew 
That  glittered  at  its  feet.     Yet  from  the  stone 
A  simple  sentence,  and  a  mournful  one, 

Brought  to  your  heart  a  feeling  sweet  and  true  : 
"  Priez  pour  les  malheureux." 

I  knelt  and  prayed.    My  heart's  first  impulse  o?er, 
I  sat  me  down  beside  the  river-shore 

And  gazed  in  silence  oil  its  waters  blue ; 
Marvelling,  the  while,  how  many  had  knelt  there 
In  eager  hope,  in  fear,  in  wild  despair, 

To  murmur  o'er  with  that  lone  cross  in  view, 
"Priez  pour  les  malheureux." 


MY  life  is  fleeting  like  a  stream  away, 
And  all  earth's  sounds  go  rippling  past  the  shore 
As  waves  that  die  in  silence,  and  return 
No  echo  to  the  ear  that  marketh  them. 
All  day  I  lie  beneath  the  shade  of  trees, 
And  hear  the  summer-winds  play  through  the  leaves 
"Whose  rustling  falls  like  music  on  mine  ear. 
All  the  cool  air  is  redolent  of  life ; 
And  many  birds  are  singing  everywhere, 
Rejoicing  in  this  summer  of  the  year. 
Flowers  by  thousands  in  the  fields  are  springing, 
And  every  breeze  that  floateth  o'er  my  couch 
Hath  touched  their  fragrant  lips,  and  wafted  thence 
A  world  of  sweetness.     And  I  lie  idle, 
While  the  world's  astir  with  throbbing  pulses ! 
I  have  no  strength  to  strive;  no  goal  to  reach. 
The  vulture  gnawing  at  Prometheus'  heart 
Is  but  a  type  of  the  chained  soul's  unrest, 
Or  of  the  fever  of  the  fretted  heart 
Preying  upon  itself.     I  look  abroad 
O'er  all  this  fair  and  glorious  world  of  ours ; 
Its  beauty  feeds  my  senses,  yet  I  lie, 
As  doth  a  slave,  bound  down  by  heavy  chains 
To  a  couch  of  sickness.     My  soul  drains  deep 
The  cup  of  sensate  pleasures,  loving  well 
The  outward  glory  of  this  earth,  yet  pining 
Tor  all  the  stir  and  hum  of  busy  life, 


CONS  UMPTION.  120 

The  sounds  that  only  reach  it,  as  the  roar 
Of  far-off'  ocean  moans  through  forest  trees 
That  never  saw  the  gleaming  of  its  waves, 
Nor  knew  the  baptism  of  its  cooling  spray. 

My  life  is  fleeting  as  a  dream  of  night 
That  never  knew  completion.     All  my  hopes 
Were  shadows,  still-born;  and  my  love  is  dust; 
It  never  woke  to  life.     My  youth  is  age ; 
For  I,  though  young  in  years,  have  never  known 
The  full  and  bounding  pulse  of  early  days. 
My  life  was  measured  by  a  broken  rule ; 
And  all  mine  hours  were  numbered,  and  are  few ; 
Few,  yet  they  linger,  lengthened  out  by  pain. 

My  life  is  fleeting,  and  I  feel  it  go. 
The  sands  are  falling  in  the  fatal  glass ; 
And,  as  I  watch  them,  earthly  things  grow  dim. 
A  veil  hath  fallen  on  the  light  of  day, 
But,  through  the  shadow,  angels  come  to  me ; 
And  from  their  lips  fall  holy  words,  and  prayers 
That  seem  to  pave  the  silent  road  that  leads 
Unto  the  City  of  the  Heavenly  King. 
My  weary  feet  already  touch  that  road ; 
And  to  my  soul  a  new-born  strength  is  given. 
I  may  not  falter  now,  though  dark  the  path ; 
Though  lone  and  still  the  way.    I  may  not  shrink, 
For  angel- voices  whisper  unto  me,  —7 
"  Fear  not,  O  Soul!     God,  who  redeemed  thee 
Once  trod  the  path  thou  treadest,  and  became  • 
First-fruits  of  them  that  sleep.    Have  thou  no  fear,  — 
He,  that  so  loved  thee  that  for  thy  sake 
He  gave  his  only  Son  unto  the  cross, 
Is  with  thee  now.     Lean  thou  upon  his  arm, 
And  his  great  love  shall  shield  and  buckler  be ! "  — 
As  through  the  darkness  of  a  night  of  storms, 
The  clear  outringing  of  some  convent-bell 
Doth  guide  and  cheer  the  wanderer  on  his  way; 
So  to  my  soul,  float  echoes  from  that  world 
Whither  its  course  is  tending;  and  the  grave 
Hath  lost  its  victory.    Do  I  not  know 
"  That  my  REDEEMER  liveth"? 
9 


130  THE   OLD    YE  Alt   AND    THE  NEW. 


Wfyt  ©ft  gear  anto  t&e 

THE  year  is  dead !     Cold  in  its  grave  it  lieth ; 

But  not  to  silence  hath  the  year  gone  down ; 
For  of  the  Past  the  world's  voice  ever  crieth, 

And  oft  its  deeds  find  afterward  their  crown. 
The  year  is  dead ;  but  evermore  life  bringeth 

Back  from  that  passed  time,  or  thought,  or  deed, 
Whose  issues  seemed  forgotten,  till  it  flingeth 

Upon  some  quickening  soil  a  little  seed. 
A  little  seed,  —  a  fragile  thing,  and  lowly, 

Yet  bearing  in  its  germ  a  world  of  fate ; 
A  little  seed,  that  gendereth  surely,  slowly, 

That  which  the  sower  would  have  crushed  too  late. 

The  year  is  dead ;  and  on  its  throne  is  sitting 

A  radiant  stranger,  strong  in  heart  and  limb. 
He  seeth  not  the  mournful  shadow  flitting 

Into  the  darkness ;  what  is  it  to  him  ? 
Little  he  recks  who  wore  the  crown  he  weareth ; 

Nothing  he  feeleth  of  its  thorns,  as  yet ; 
And  nobly,  as  a  kingly  soul,  he  beareth 

The  royal  state  that  soon  his  heart  will  fret. 
What  matter?    Let  the  Future  darken  o'er  him ; 

He  sees  not  now  the  far-off  cloud  of  fate ; 
The  world  is  fair,  and  lieth  all  before  him ; 

His  brow  is  smiling,  and  his  heart  elate ! 

And  we,  —  the  dust  that  at  Time's  feet  is  lying,  — 

Have  we  no  greeting  for  its  crowned  king? 
Some  song  that  hath  no  shadow  of  vain  sighing, 

Some  strain  that  like  a  trumpet-note  doth  ring? 
Ay !  that  have  we !     Onward  and  upward  ever, 

Floateth  the  glorious  music  of  one  song; 
The  only  strain  that  knoweth  silence  never,  — 

The  only  song  that  riseth  graves  among. 
It  breaketh  from  the  heart  all  crushed  and  bleeding; 

It  falleth  from  the- lips  death  soon  must  seal; 
It  fills  our  souls  when  this  poor  life,  receding, 

Withdraws  the  veil,  Heaven's  glories  to  reveal. 

Know  ye  the  song  ?    The  angels  sing  it  ever, 
And  o'er  our  cradle  float  its  harmonies ; 

But  we  are  moved  by  many  a  passion-fever, 
And  in  our  human  hearts  its  echo  dies. 


"A    LITTLE    WHILE."  131 

Wherefore  so  ?    It  neecleth  tender  keeping, 

And  gentlest  nurture  in  our  early  years ; 
Give  it  but  this;  and  in  its  spring-tide  leaping 

Forth  into  song,  it  slmtteth  out  our  tears. 
Onward  and  upward  I    Look  not  back  for  sighing, 

Nor  bury  any  hope  beneath  the  pall. 
What  matter  if  the  years  of  life  are  flying, 

When  Heaven  is  so  near,  —  GOD  over  all? 


"a  Hittle 

A  LITTLE  while !     O  Earth,  give  happiness 

Ere  I  am  summoned  hence  away. 
O  Love,  thou  hast  the  means,  the  power  to  bless, 

Pour  thou  thy  sunshine  on  my  waning  day. 

A  little  while  —  and  my  once  home  shall  boast 

A  silent  presence  then  and  evermore; 
A  voiceless  shadow,  of  the  loved  and  lost 

Whose  feet  are  treading  the  eternal  shore, 

A  little  while  —  and  echoings  of  my  name 

Shall  sound  no  more  where  the  bright  waters  flow; 

A  little  while  —  and  all  my  dreams  of  fame 
With  "  dust  unto  the  dust"  shall  silent  go. 

A  little  while  —  and  this  poor  heart  of  mine 
No  more  shall  tremble  unto  throbs  of  pain; 

A  little  while  —  and  other  suns  will  shine 
Upon  the  grave  where  long  my  dust  hath  lain. 

A  little  while  —  and  all  these  things  shall  be; 

And  to  my  quiet  place  there  will  not  come 
One  lingering  step  in  memory  of  me, 

And  I  shall  be  forgotten  in  my  home. 

A  little  while  —  and  all  this  breathing  mass 
Shall  be  as  shadows  fading  in  the  night; 

A  little  while  —  and  every  hearth,  alas ! 
Will  know  how  sorrow  darkens  over  light, 

A  little  while  —  and  this  fair  earth  of  ours 
Shall  shrivel  as  a  scroll,  and  all  the  dead 

Shall  rise,  and  in  this  last  of  changeful  hours 
We  all  shall  know  by  what  way  we  were  led. 


132       "  THERE    WENT  OUT  A    SOWER    TO   SOW." 

A  little  while  this  weary  earth  to  tread ; 

A  little  while  to  kneel  upon  the  sod; 
A  little  while  to  rest  amid  the  dead; 

And  then  to  be  for  evermore  with  God ! 

A  little  while  ;  then  let  us  patient  be, 

And  softly  fold  our  hands,  and  ever  pray ; 

And  bear  life's  crosses  meekly,  cheerfully, 
Waiting  the  dawning  of  eternal  day. 

A  little  while !     O  restless  heart,  be  still ; 

Nor  murmur  thou  beneath  so  light  a  cross ;    , 
But  bow  submissive  to  our  Father's  will, 

And  know  thy  grief  is  rather  gain  than  loss. 

A  little  while  to  fold  our  hands  in  prayer; 

A  little  while  to  fit  us  for  the  sky. 
Rest  we  content ;  for  our  beloved  are  there, 

And  God  doth  watch  o'er  all  eternally. 


erc  fomt  out  a  Joiner  to  0010."  —  fHarfe  ifc.  3. 

A  SOWER  went  out  to  sow, 

And  with  unsparing  hand 
The  good  seed  and  the  precious  seed 

He  scattered  o'er  the  land. 
And  some  fell  on  the  beaten  path, 

Some  on  a  rocky  bed ; 
And  the  fowls  of  the  air  they  gathered  the  first 

When  the  last  was  withered,  dead. 
And  some  of  the  seed  'mid  thorns 

And  choking  brambles  fell, 
And  it  never  knew  the  time  of  fruit. 

But  only  God  can  tell 
Why  the  good  seed  the  Sower  sowed 

Should  perish  at  its  birth, 
Or  grow  awhile  but  to  die  without  fruit 

From  off  the  summer  earth. 

A  Sower  went  out  to  sow, 

And  he  scattered  goodly  seed, 
And  some  fell  on  a  richer  soil, 

Was  not  choked  by  thorn  nor  weed  ; 
And  the  grain  increased,  and  grew  strong, 

And  the  sun  shone  on  it  still ; 


MY  PICTURE-GALLERY.  133 

In  the  harvest  the  reapers  gathered  in 

A  hundred  fold  at  will. 
Know  ye  who  the  Sower  is? 

The  God  who  loveth  all ; 
And  he  soweth  seed  in  human  hearts 

There  to  grow,  or  there  to  fall. 
May  his  sun  shine  aye  upon  it, 

And  his  rain  fall  soft  and  slow ; 
And  the  seed  that  our  Father  hath  planted 

To  a  goodly  harvest  grow .' 


A  QUIET  vale,  wherein  a  lowly  cot 
Reared  its  moss-covered  roof.     Spring's  magic  touch 
Had  loosed  the  fetters  from  a  little  rill 
That  flowed  adown  the  vale ;  and  tiny  blades 
Of  grass  were  growing  greenly,  and  some  flowers  — 
Some  pale  blue  flowers  —  looked  up  from  out  the  stream 
As  it  had  caught  bright  fleckings  from  the  sky 
And  gave  them  back  unto  the  light  again 
Fresh-clothed  in  beauty,  and  new-shaped  as  flowers. 
A  child  was  lying  'mid  that  soft  green  grass, 
His  naked  feet  white  plashing  in  the  wave 
With  whose  cool  spray  they  sported.     Clearest  eyes 
Were  looking  up  into  the  bluest  heaven 
With  half-pleased  wonder;   while  one  restless  hand 
Was  filled  with  the  blue  flower  "forget-me-not." 
Stern  cliffs,  white-browed  with  snow,  were  looming  cold 
From  out  the  distance ;  frowning,  silent,  pale, 
On  all  the  youth  and  beauty  at  their  feet. 

ii. 

A  palace-chamber,  crimson  garmented, 
Wherein  an  infant  slumbered ;  quietly, 
As  if  upon  her  brow  there  rested  not 
The  shadow  of  a  crown.    Her  tiny  hand 
Doth  hold  a  mimic  sceptre  in  its  grasp ; 
And  scattered  round,  meet  for  a  royal  child, 
Lie  jewelled  toys,  and  fairy  crowns,  not  flowers. 
The  world  doth  gift  her  richly ;  but  the  earth 
With  all  its  wealth  of  beauty  hath  no  part 


134  MY  PICTURE-GALLERY. 

In  aught  that  pleases  her.     She  lieth  there, 
Unto  her  mother's  heart  a  thing  of  joy, 
A  child  within  its  cradle  sleeping,  yet 
In  some  far-seeing  statesman's  eye,  a  queen ! 

in. 

A  forest-opening  where  through  arched  trees 
The  morning  sun  looked  in  upon  a  scene 
That  stirred  some  finer  pulses  than  if  life 
Had  been  a  stranger  there.     A  princely  child, 
That  scarce  had  seen  ten  summers  sweep  the  earth, 
Leaned  white  and  cold,  against  a  sturdy  oak, 
Her  darkening  eyes  yet  fixed  upon  the  foe, 
The  dreaded  wolf  fierce  ravening  for  her  blood. 
Betwixt  them  both,  a  boy,  a  stripling,  stood, 
With  lips  compressed,  and  brows  resolved,  though  pale, 
His  ready  dagger  gleaming  in  his  hand. 
Far-off,  were  dark  blue  mountains,  purple-tinged 
In  the  (tool  light  of  morn ;  and  at  their  feet 
A  gleam  of  silver  waters.     Through  the  trees, 
There  stole  faint  glimpses  of  the  arching  skies 
That  smiled  so  blue  above.     Fair  all  the  scene 
That  nature  called  her  own ;  but  fairer  still 
The  drooping,  girlish  brow,  so  white  with  dread, 
So  veiled  with  waves  of  bright  and  golden  hair. 
The  gallant  boy,  also,  his  dark  eyes  filled 
With  all  a  man's  true  daring,  standing  there 
'Tvvixt  the  gaunt  wolf  and  his  expected  prey ; 
Content  to  die  —if  such  fate  waited  him  — 
So  that  grim  wolf  shall  bear  him  company. 

IV. 

An  ancient  hall,  hung  round  with  banners  old, 
Wherein  the  pride  and  flower  of  the  land 
Were  keeping  stately  revel.     Rainbow  groups 
Were  scattered  here  and  there,  with  brows  unbent 
From  all  the  cares  of  day,  and  fullest  lips 
That  only  curled  to  laughter,  or  light  scorn ; 
Such  scorn  as  sitteth  mocking  on  the  arch 
Of  some  sweet  girlish  lips.     The  merry  throng 
Had  drawn  aside,  and  down  the  central  space 
The  queen  and  star  of  all  the  festival 
Moves  slowly ;  yet  with  such  unconscious  grace 
That  every  eye  cloth  rest  upon  her  form, 
As  loth  to  turn  away,  and,  turning,  lose 
The  sight  of  such  rare  beauty.     Soft  brown  eyes 
Wherein  the  soul  yet  slumbered ;  brow  as  white 
As  lily-flower  just  opening  to  the  sun; 


MY  PICTURE-GALLERY.  135 

And  arched  lips,  now  wreathed  with  a  smile  — 

Yet  firm  withal,  as  if  in  clanger's  hour 

High  noble  truths,  and  words  that  vanquish  wrong 

Might  issue  through  their  arched  and  ruby  gates ; 

Thick,  heavy  braids  of  soft  brown  golden  hair 

Rolled  round  the  Grecian  head,  and  shadowy  fell 

Upon  the  snowy  temples.     Robed  in  white, 

She  stood  amid  the  rainbow-colored  throng 

As  some  fair  lily  in  its  dew  of  youth 

Doth  stand  amid  the  roses  in  their  bloom. 

All  eyes  were  bent  upon  her.     Some  that  looked 

The  love  that  never  found  an  utterance, 

But  silent  lived ;  prompting  to  noblest  deeds 

That  so  themselves  might  win  a  quiet  place 

In  her  true  memory.     But  one  who  came 

Within  that  lovely  presence  gathered  hope, 

Though  he  was  young  and  nameless,  peasant-born ;   t 

And  went  upon  his  way,  with  nothing  more 

Than  one  sweet  smile  to  cheer  him ;  yet  it  made 

Sunshine  within  his  heart  forever ! 

v. 

A  field  of  strife,  wherein  the  peasant-born 
Did  link  his  name  to  glory,  and  became 
A  heritor  of  fame,  and  all  to  win 
A  thought  from  one  who  never  could  be  his ! 
Deep  on  his  heart  that  bitter  truth  was  stencilled, 
Yet  none  the  less  its  every  throb  was  hers. 
What  though  her  brow  was  ringed  with  a  crown, 
And  might  not  lie  upon  a  peasant's  breast  ? 
What  though  the  gulf  between  them  was  too  wide 
E'en  for  ambition's  leaping?    Yet  his  love 
Might  come  betwixt  her  and  some  threatened  hurt, 
As  in  the  passed  time  his  young,  strong  arm  — 
Her  only  refuge  in  that  fearful  hour  — 
Had  smitten  down  the  fierce  and  eager  wolf. 
And  so  he  led  her  armies  to  the  field, 
Turning  the  tide  of  battle  when  it  ebbed ; 
And  hasting  on  the  day,  whose  time  of  flood 
Crowned  the  long  strife  with  Peace  ! 

VI. 

—  "Alone! 

Do  I  not  know  the  meaning  of  that  word, 
Written  in  fire  on  my  heart  of  hearts? 
Doth  it  not  burn,  yea,  quiver  there  alway, 
Torturing  my  soul  with  restless  agony  ? 
Aloue !  —  alone.    There  flows  no  kindred  blood 


136  MY  PICTURE-GALLERY. 

In  any  veins  of  earth.    There  beats  no  pulse 
That  might  keep  measure  with  mine  own,  aud  give 
Some  little  warmth  to  me.     Alone  —  alone. 
Crowned  and  anointed  queen,  but  nothing  more ; 
Nor  wife  —  nor  mother  —  mated  but  to  pride, 
That  wears  my  heart  away !    Would  I  could  crush 
Beneath  my  feet  the  crown  that  doth  enriug 
My  forehead  as  a  curse,  and  be  as  free 
As  is  the  meanest  peasant  in  my  realm ! 
Then  might  I  hope  for  something  of  the  joy 
That  smiles  on  humble  homes,  yet  passes  by 
The  palaces  of  kings ! 

There  is  a  dull  pain  gnawing  at  my  heart  — 
What  if  it  be  thy  slow  precursor,  Death? 
The  foe  is  thundering  at  the  city  gates ; 
My  country  needs  its  queen ;  I  cannot  die ! 
Yet  to  my  worn  and  weary  spirit  now 
Pale  death  would  seem  an  angel  sent  from  God; 
And  I  would  greet  him  as  the  captive  greets 
The  light  of  day  once  more.    Be  patient,  heart ! 
I  say  not  yet  to  thy  wild  throbs  "  be  still." 
There  are  some  duties  that  do  bind  me  here, 
And  I  must  work,  although  it  be  alone. 
Alone  —  to  bear  the  brunt  of  this  fierce  war; 
Alone  —  with  none  to  comfort  if  I  fail ; 
Alone  —  yet  I  must  live !  " 

VII. 

Back  to  the  city  of  that  fairest  queen ; 
Back  to  the  city  he  had  saved  for  her, 
Came  the  proud  victor ;  but  no  flowers  strewed 
The  path  he  trod.     The  very  streets  were  still, 
As  the  inanimate  stones  were  stricken  dumb 
By  some  great  sorrow.    Banners  that  were  flung 
Victorious  to  the  breeze  were  trailing  low 
As  every  fold  were  all  instinct  with  grief. 
How  still  had  grown  the  victor's  bounding  pulse ! 
Yet  stayed  he  not.  —  "  Lead  on !    I  pause  not  here." 

vin. 

Within  a  royal  abbey's  sacred  walls 
A  queen  was  sleeping ;  guarded  right  and  left 
By  all  the  best  and  noblest  of  the  land. 
Robed  all  in  white,  no  mocking  emblems  there ; 
The  crown  and  sceptre  lying  at  her  feet, 
She  slept.    No  sounds  of  earth  might  waken  her. 
A  wail  was  on  the  air  that  none  might  still, 
For  every  heart  was  chanting  requiem. 


"  YOUTH  EVER   LOVES    TO   DREAM."  137 

A  stir  without.    His  forehead  bared,  unarmed, 

The  peasant  victor  knelt  before  his  queen. 

—  "  Lady,  this  day  I  bring  thce  back  thine  own. 

Thy  cities  are  untouched ;  thy  land  is  free ; 

Thy  foe  hath  made  such  peace  as  leaveth  him 

No  shadow  of  old  boasting ;  and  thy  realm 

Is  all  thine  own  again." —  The  soldier  ceased  : 

And  from  the  crushed  heart  of  the  lover  swept 

Its  wail  of  agony.  —  "  And  I  return 

To  look  upon  thy  dust !    I  thought  to  hear 

Some  kind  and  gracious  words  ;  to  meet  thy  smile,  — 

I  never  hoped  for  more,  —  and  this  is  all !  "  — 

The  next  of  line  sat  on  the  vacant  throne, 
But  in  his  Council  Hall  the  peasant-born 
Had  never  place.     The  armies  of  the  land 
Were  led  to  battle  by  more  noble  chiefs ; 
And  the  proud  victor  of  a  passed  strife 
Was  never  heard  of  more.    He  left  no  name 
To  gift  the  world  withal ;  and  passed  away 
In  the  same  hour  that  gave  that  fairest  queen 
Unto  the  silent  keeping  of  the  earth ; 
And  none  knew  how  he  died,  nor  where  the  dust 
Was  lying  on  his  brow. 


"goutij  rfiet  lofas  10  JBream."  —  Bulfoer. 

WHO  loves  not  dreams  ?    What  matter  if  they  flee, 

Or  pass  from  out  our  hearts  as  leaves  that  glide 
On  some  swift-rushing  river  to  the  sea 

That  but  engulfs  them  in  its  mighty  tide? 
What  matter  if  they  fade  ?    They  have  been  bright ; 

More  sweet  than  any  other  fancies  were. 
O'er  some  brief  hours  they  poured  a  flood  of  light, 

And  something  of  past  glory  lingers  there. 
What  matter  if  they  die  ?    As  in  an  urn 

Regretful  sorrow  shrines  them ;  and  they  bring  — 
Though  never  in  their  glory  they  return  — 

Back  to  our  hearts  a  memory  of  spring. 

Who  loves  not  dreams?    Yet  often  they  may  have 
Such  bitter  fruit  of  loneliness  and  tears 

As  shuts  life's  joyance  in  an  early  grave, 
And  leaves  a  shadow  on  its  after  years. 

We  weave  them  oft;  we  bind  them  on  our  hearts; 


138  SORROW. 

We  give  them  rarely  to  the  light  of  day ; 
For  in  the  sunshine  all  their  charm  departs. 

Break  but  their  silence,  and  they  fade  away. 
Do  ye  love  dreams  ?    Then  guard  them  as  a  name 

That  ye  have  given  to  the  grave  to  keep ; 
Be  they  as  secret  as  a  deed  of  shame 

Whose  very  uttering  were  tears  to  weep. 

Who  loves  not  dreams?    Yet  what,  in  truth,  are  they? 

Mere  idle  phantoms  of  the  heart  and  brain ; 
Woven  of  the  sunshine,  —  formed  from  a  ray 

That  hath  shone  brightly ;  shineth  not  aga'in. 
We  like  them  well.     We  see  them  as  we  see 

The  motes  that  cross  the  sunbeam ;  but  they  fade 
And  give  no  token  of  reality ; 

The  dusk  receives  them,  and  they  die  in  shade. 
We  know  all  this,  and  yet  we  cherish  dreams, 

Though  scarce  we  know  in  what  we  place  our  trust; 
We  follow  still  their  ignis  fatuus  gleams, 

And  half  our  lives  are  wasted  on  their  dust. 


Sorrofo. 

As  one,  who,  standing  in  some  place, 
Doth  see  before  him,  face  to  face, 

A  shape  that  shape  hath  none ; 
Whose  brow  grows  moist,  whose  heart  grows  still, 
All  power  lost  to  turn  at  will 

From  the  thing  he  looks  upon ; 
So  do  we  stand,  with  hushed  heart-beat, 
When  first  upon  our  path  we  meet 

The  sorrow  of  our  life. 
Vainly  we  strive  to  turn  away, 
Or  shut  without  our  walls  of  clay 

The  pain  with  which  'tis  rife. 
I  counsel  not  to  drive  it  hence. 
How  do  we  know  from  Whom,  or  Whence 

The  dreaded  shadow  came  ? 
It  hath  a  visage  cold  and  stern ; 
It  treadeth  some  funereal  urn 

Or  telleth  of  some  shame. 
All  this  may  be ;  but  I  would  clasp 
The  sorrow  with  as  warm  a  grasp 

As  if  some  friend  it  were. 
Weary  and  sad  may  be  the  task, 

Bitter  and  dark  to  me ; 


A    REVERIE.  130 

But  a  day  shall  come,  when  falleth  the  mask ; 

When  the  cold,  stern  face 

Shall  not  have  a  trace 
Of  its  olden  shape  and  mien ; 
When  a  giory  shall  rest,  as  a  golden  sheen, 
On  the  sorrow  past,  and  I  shall  see 

God's  angel  smiling  there ! 


a  fce&m'e. 

I  AM  sitting  by  the  fireside 

In  the  dusk  of  the  day, 
And  I  watch  the  fire-sparkles 

As  they  flash  and  fade  away ; 
Till  into  my  heart  there  glideth 

Some  dreams  of  golden  glow ; 
And  they  gleam  as  if  their  glory 

Had  not  perished  long  ago. 

I  am  sitting  by  the  fireside, 

As  in  those  pleasant  days 
When  all  our  dreams  seemed  full  of  life 

Caught  from  the  cheerful  blaze. 
I  hear  the  old,  sweet  voices 

That  knew  not  sorrow's  tone ; 
And  I  see  the  glad,  young  faces, 

So  joyous,  every  one. 

I  am  sitting  by  the  fireside ; 

But  my  heart  is  otherwhere  j 
I  look  upon  another  scene, 

I  breathe  another  air. 
I  hear  the  breezes,  flying 

O'er  the  waters  in  their  play; 
See  the  autumn-flowers  dying 

On  a  hill-side,  far  away. 

I  am  sitting  by  the  fireside ; 

And  my  thoughts  are  flowing  back 
Like  a  murmur  of  sweet  music 

To  my  childhood's  early  track. 
And  I  dream  of  sunny  hours 

That  may  come  no  more  to  me ; 
Though  the  present  gathers  flowers 

From  the  past  of  memory. 


140  A    REVERIE. 

I  am  sitting  by  the  fireside, 

But  none  sit  there  with  me ; 
And  merry  voices,  loving  hearts, 

Are  only  memory. 
Through  the  day  I  may  be  lonely, 

But  the  evening  hour  doth  bring 
Unto  my  heart  all  gentle  things 

It  loved  in  the  spring. 

I  am  sitting  by  the  fireside, 

Watching  the  shadows  pass 
Across  the  mystic  jets  of  flame 

As  in  a  magic  glass, 
Till  echoes  of  soft  foot- falls 

Sound  on  the  oaken  floor; 
Yet  I  know  those  feet  are  treading 

A  far  and  silent  shore. 

I  am  sitting  by  the  fireside, 

And  on  my  heart  there  lies 
A  memory  of  clasping  hands, 

A  thought  of  loving  eyes. 
A  mist  falls  o'er  the  firelight, 

A  sob  is  in  my  breath ; 
Those  hands  lie  folded  evermore, 

Those  eyes  are  sealed  in  death. 

I  am  sitting  by  the  fireside, 

And  I  hear  what  none  may  hear 
Save  those  whose  souls  are  passing 

Away  with  the  passing  year. 
A  mournful  chant  and  sighing, 

Half  silenced  with  a  song 
Of  praise  and  glory  unto  God 

That  riseth  graves  among. 

I  am  sitting  by  the  fireside, 

And  the  .shadows  gather  there, 
And  their  wan,  wan  lips  are  moving 

In  a  murmur  as  of  prayer; 
And  I  hear,  far-off,  the  flowing 

Of  a  river  that  doth  run 
Through  morning,  and  through  eveninj 

Unto  the  setting  sun. 

I  am  sitting  by  the  fireside, 

And  patiently  I  wait 
The  breaking  of  my  prison-bars, 

The  opening  of  the  gate. 


"  GIVE    THOU  NO    TEARS    TO  ME."  141 

The  bird  is  weary  of  its  cage ; 

Pines  for  the  free  blue  skies ; 
Break  but  its  bonds,  —  with  tireless  wing 

Upward  the  freed  one  flies ! 


T|j0u  no  &ears  to  &(z" 

GIVE  thou  no  tears  to  me.  I'll  have  no  weeping 

When  for  my  soul  the  welcome  angels  come. 

Rests  not  the  dust  within  the  Father's  keeping? 
Goes  not  the  spirit  home  ? 

Give  thou  no  tears  to  me,  when  from  this  dreary 
And  restless  world  I  go  but  to  be  blest. 

Wherefore  should  I  linger?    I  am  so  weary ; 
Shall  I  not  be  at  rest? 

Give  thou  no  tears  to  me.    My  dreams  of  morning 
Lived  not  the  full  and  glorious  day  to  see. 

I  know  their  light  on  other  hearts  is  dawning ; 
They  gave  but  night  to  me. 

Give  thou  no  tears  to  me ;  but  keep  thou  ever 

Within  thy  heart  one  thought  that  is  all  mine ; 

And  I  will  bless  thee,  ere  the  grave  shall  sever 
The  bond  'twixt  mine  and  thine. 

Think  of  me  kindly,  as  of  one  who,  sleeping, 
Hath  buried  all  her  faults  from  memory ; 

But  keep  thine  eyes  from  shadow  of  vain  weeping; 
Give  thou  no  tears  to  me. 


&n  JEncfoent. 

MORNING  dawned 

O'er  the  far-reaching  prairies,  lighting  up 
Their  waves  of  green;  and  resting,  as  a  swan, 
On  the  broad  bosom  of  the  flowing  river. 
Soft  sighed  the  breeze  along  the  silent  shore, 
Singing  through  stately  trees  that  knew  not  yet 
The  white  man's  fatal  axe.    Not  long  endured 
That  happy  ignorance.     Even  now  a  sail 


142  AN  INCIDENT. 

Flashed  white  against  the  forest's  wealth  of  green ; 

And  swiftly,  as  a  thought,  it  rode  the  wave 

That  ne'er  had  known  such  rider  till  that  morn. 

It  paused  upon  its  way ;  its  sails  were  furled ; 

The  bark  was  moored  beside  the  western  shore ; 

And  on  its  deck  a  sad  band  gathered  slow. 

We  ask  not  wherefore,  since  a  shrouded  form 

Was  lying  in  their  midst.    They  had  but  paused 

To  give  unto  the  keeping  of  the  earth 

A  woman's  silent  heart.     It  beat  yest're'en ; 

Though  faintly,  as  a  strain  of  dying  music 

That  fadeth  into  silence  with  a  smile. 

And  she  died  smiling,  as  a  child  in  sleep 

That  resteth  quiet  on  its  mother's  breast. 

Some  tender  hands  were  with  her  when  she  passed 

Unto  the  Better  Land ;  yet  strangers  all, 

That  scarcely  knew  her  name,  nor  yet  her  life, 

Save  what  she  murmured  to  herself,  ere  death 

Brought  silentness. 

—  "I  joy  that  I  am  dying. 
I  hear  the  river  rippling  as  it  glides, 
Bearing  me  far  away.    It  brings  to  me 
A  dream  of  yore ;  a  memory  of  days, 
When  all  my  youth  fled  from  me,  as  a  stream 
Doth  lose  itself  within  the  mighty  deep. 
Coolly  the  waters  glide,  and  musical ; 
And  in  my  heart  an  echo  answers  them. 
I  tread  once  more  my  far-off  father-land ; 
I  see  its  skies  blue  smiling  down  on  me ; 
I  hear  sweet  voices  that  have  long  been  still ; 
A  merry  laugh  is  ringing  on  mine  ears, 
And  restless  feet  fall  lightly  on  the  turf 
I  may  not  tread  again !    All  this,  and  more, 
Is  present  to  me ;  and  my  weary  heart 
Doth  beat  as  if  it  nothing  knew  of  dying; 
And  yet  the  rising  of  yon  setting  sun 
I  shall  not  live  to  see !  — 

—  "I  fear  thee  not, 

0  quiet  Death !     O  still  and  dreamless  sleep, 
That  soon  shall  cover  me  from  pain  and  tears ! 

1  see  a  vision  of  a  churchyard  green, 

With  mossy  head-stones,  and  sown  thick  with  graves ; 

Where,  in  the  shadow  by  the  old  tower  thrown, 

My  mother  long  hath  slept.    Another  grave  — 

It  seems  to  me  as  if  but  yesterday 

The  earth  fell  heavy  on  the  coffin-lid  — 

Lies  there  beneath  the  stars  that  never  veiled 

Their  glory  when  he  died. 


SOXG.  143 

—  "I  wandered,  once, 
Out  in  the  ruthless  storm,  unto  the  shore 
Whereon  the  living  waters  foamed  and  clashed. 
Madly  the  billows  curled,  and  on  their  crest, 
A  moment  seen,  a  dead  man's  face  gleamed  white. 
The  next  they  dashed  it  to  my  very  feet ! 
And  from  those  sands  the  eyes  looked  cold  on  me 
That  ever  were  so  loving.     Cold  and  still, 
Beside  my  mother's  grave,  I  left  him  sleeping ; 
And,  where  they  rest,  my  dust  shall  never  be. 
How  fast  the  river  runs !     It  flows  from  me,  — 
I  cannot  hear  its  ripple,  —  but  I  see 
A  church-yard  green  with  graves,  and  mine  not  there  ! 
I  am  so  weary ;  let  me  sleep  —  sleep  —  sleep."  — 

And  so  she  slept ;  to  wake  no  more  on  earth. 
She  parted  ere  the  morn.    At  set  of  sun 
Strange  hands  had  made  her  grave,  where  still  the  flow 
Of  Mississippi's  waters  murmured  soft 
A  song  of  sorrow. 


SILENTLY,  silently  fleeteth  the  day, 

Softly  and  slowly  the  night  cometh  on ; 
So  the  light  of  my  youth  it  is  passing  away ; 
It  came  as  a  dream ;  as  a  dream  it  is  gone. 
And  I  sit  and  I  sing, 
By  the  old  mossy  spring, 
Of  the  days  that  forever  are  gone ; 
And  I  hear,  once  more, 
The  voices  of  yore, 
Till  I  feel  no  longer  alone. 

Merrily,  merrily,  passed  the  hours, 

When  my  heart  was  as  blithe  as  a  bird ; 
And  my  feet  they  were  pressing  the  brightest  of  flowers, 
And  sorrow's  wild  moan  was  not  heard. 
When  I  sang  but  one  song 
All  the  merry  day  long, 
And  the  song  was  as  glad  as  could  be ; 
But  it  floated  away 
With  the  passing  of  day, 
Till  it  died  into  silence  for  me. 


144  UNDER    THE   SEA. 

Wearily,  wearily,  goeth  the  day ; ' 

For  ray  heart  is  more  weary  still ; 
And  vainly  I  strive  to  make  time  pass  away, — 
'Tis  a  riddled  cup  I  fill. 

But  this  wasting  strife 

Is  as  death  to  life, 
And  I  shall  not  be  weary  long. 

Soon  a  place  there  will  be, 

And  a  rest  for  me, 
Earth's  thousand  graves  among. 


Wiribtx  tjje  Sea. 

I  SAW,  as  in  a  dream.    My  spirit  walked 
The  waste  of  ocean ;  and  the  deeps  gave  up 
Their  solemn  mysteries.     Strange  things  were  there. 
Rare  palace-chambers,  lighted  up  with  gems 
That  once,  perchance,  had  decked  Golconda's  lord ; 
Or  shone  with  mocking  radiance,  'mid  the  plumes 
Of  some  dark-browed  cacique ;  torn  thence  to  grace 
The  noblest  dames  of  Leon  or  Castile. 
Yet  destined  ne'er  to  sparkle  on  a  brow 
Of  earthly  loveliness.    The  sea  gives  not 
Its  priceless  treasures  up ;  and  so  it  kept 
Within  its  secret  caverns  and  its  cells 
The  ravished  jewels  as  the  fruits  of  crime 
The  spoiler  might  not  reap.     Yet  hath  the  sea 
More  lovely  things  than  these.     Anemones, 
Half  plant,  half  animal ;  coral  groves,  that  mock 
The  marble  domes  and  palaces  of  man, 
For  that  their  fairy  structure  was  the  work 
Of  some  poor  feeble  insects,  yet  endures 
When  marble  domes  have  crumbled  into  dust; 
And  shells  that  lie  upon  the  ocean  floor 
As  stars  do  fleck  the  sky.     Pale  shells  whose  hue 
Doth  show  beside  the  blush-rose  lovelier; 
And  some  that  mock  all  tintings  of  that  arch 
Which  spanneth  heaven  as  a  type  of  hope, 
A  promise  of  To  Be.    And  yet  the  deep 
Hath  costlier  things  than  these ;  for  human  hearts 
Have  striven,  and  grown  still,  amid  the  foam 
That  floats  so  lightly  o'er  their  secret  graves ; 
And  in  its  palace  chambers,  soft  and  still, 
A  thousand,  thousand  hearts  are  lying  low. 


UNDER    THE    SEA.  145 

I  saw,  as  in  a  dream,  pale  shadows  flit 
Across  these  palace-chambers,  — shapes  that  once 
Made  light  and  sunshine  in  some  home  of  earth, 
Yet  perished  far  away  amid  the  storm 
And  never  came  to  shore ;  dark  brows  of  men 
Whose  hearts  were  darker  with  some  crime  or  shame 
That  gave  them  never  rest,  though  death  had  stilled 
Their  fevered  pulse  to  silence.     Many  forms, 
That  once  were  of  the  earth,  came  gliding  past, 
Seen  but  to  disappear  as  silently. 
Yet  some  moved  slowly  by,  speaking  the  while 
What  seemed  to  be  a  record  of  their  life. 

A  shape  rose  up  beside  me,  stately-browed, 
Yet  fair  withal ;  her  voice  not  soft  and  sweet, 
But  full  and  deep,  as  any  man's  might  be. 

—  "I  was  a  woman ;  but  my  father  taught 
Unto  my  soul  such  deep  and  bitter  lore 
As  made  me  more  akin  unto  himself. 
I  was  his  only  child,  and  wildly  loved ; 
Yet  trained  by  him  as  I  had  been  a'  man, 
And  fit  to  heir  the  greatness  of  the  schemes 
He  thought  would  crown  him  king.     They  did  but  stain 
His  memory  as  a  traitor's,  false  alike 
To  country  and  to  home.     In  his  counsels 
I  shared  not  then,  nor  ever.     When  he  crept 
Unto  the  happy  hearth-stone  of  his  friend, 
A  serpent  in  its  Eden,  leaving  there 
A  loathsome  slime  upon  its  fairest  flower, 
I  had  been  sleeping  long.     When  on  his  brow 
The  name  of  '  traitor'  burned  as  a  flame, 
Mine  ears  were  deaf  unto  the  world's  sharp  scorn, 
Mine  eyes  saw  nothing  of  that  brand  of  shame, 
My  heart  knew  never  one  wild  pang  of  pain, 
So  still  and  deep  its  slumber. 

"One  fair  morn, 

Our  path  was  o'er  the  ocean,  and  our  bark 
Swept  on  full  proudly  o'er  the  restless  sea, 
Whose  surges  sang  so  sweet  and  sad  a  song. 
I  sat  upon  the  vessel's  prow ;  mine  eyes 
Bent  downward  as  to  pierce  beneath  the  foam 
And  learn  what  language  wave  did  speak  to  wave 
So  mournfully ;  till,  wearied  out,  I  slept. 
I  saw  not,  in  my  sleep,  how  in  the  South 
A  sail  loomed  white  against  the  horizon ; 
Nor  watched  it  grow  into  a  stately  barque; 
Nor  felt  the  terror,  nor  the  anguish  knew 
10 


146  UNDER    THE  SEA. 

That  throbbed  so  keenly  in  some  stoutest  hearts. 

But  there  came  a  swift  and  dark  awakening. 

A  battle-cry  rang  out  upon  mine  ears ; 

A  sound  of  hurrying  feet  that  swept  the  deck, 

And  sabres  clashing  for  the  briefest  space. 

Then  all  was  silent,  save  some  moans  of  pain 

That  might  not  yet  be  stilled.     From  out  my  lair — 

They  had  not  seen  me  yet  —  I  looked,  and  saw 

The  hapless  dead  tossed  to  the  hungry  waves 

That  closed  above  them  soon.     I  saw  the  plank 

Run  out  to  leeward ;  saw  the  few  yet  left 

Of  those  who  fought  so  bravely  tread  its  length, 

And  so  go  down  to  silence  and  to  death. 

Ere  yet  the  wave  had  settled  o'er  the  last, 

A  white  shape  flashed  athwart  the  buccaneers, 

And  stood,  unfaltering,  on  the  narrow  plank 

Yet  poised  above  the  deep.    I  had  my  choice, 

To  live,  and  be  a  thing  for  my  own  soul 

To  mock  at  evermore7  or  to  go  down 

Quick  into  the  grave,  and  —  I  am  here !  '* 

I  saw,  as  in  a  dream,  an  ancient  ship, 
With  sails  all  set,  yet  cold  and  motionless ; 
All  ribbed  with  ice,  and  still  as  any  stone. 
A  man  sat  at  the  helm  ;  and  by  his  side 
A  fair-haired  child  was  leaning,  with  blue  eyes 
That  had  no  child-look  in  them.     Still  she  sang :  — 

"  Father,  the  sun  was  high  in  heaven, 
And  praise  unto  Mary  Mother  was  given 
For  the  fair  and  cloudless  day 
The  morn  we  sailed  away ; 
And  merrily  we  went  forth 
Orer  the  waters  to  the  north 

Whither  our  course  did  lie ; 
And  my  song  it  floated  over  the  sea 
Merrily  —  merrily. 

"  Father,  the  moon  looked  so  pale  last  night, 
That  I  scarce  could  see  in  the  misty  light 
What  shadow  was  passing  me. 
But  it  turned  its  face, 
And  I  then  could  see 
Of  my  mother's  form  some  trace ; 
And  she  touched  my  brow  with  her  shadowy  hand, 
And  it  felt  as  cold  as  the  white  ice-land 
That  I  saw  but  yestere'en ; 


UNDER    THE    SEA.  147 

And  my  heart  beat  fast,  as  when  long  ago 
They  left  my  mother  to  sleep  'neath  the  snow 
Near  the  kirk  of  Eiladeen. 

"Father,  the  sun  did  not  shine  to-day, 

And  the  sea  moans  wearily ; 
The  cold,  wet  sleet  driveth  fast  on  me, 

And  I  cannot  move  away. 
The  sails  do  not  flap,  and  the  crew  lie  so  still, 

I  hear  not  any  breath ; 
And  your  face  is  as  white  as  my  mother's,  and  chill 

As  hers  when  her  sleep  was  death. 
Let  me  hold  the  helm.     You  are  weary ;  sleep, 

Till  the  morning  comes  to  me. 
Dear  Mary  Mother,  watch  over  us  keep, 

As  we  sail  upon  the  sea." 

The  morning  came,  lighting  with  coldest  ray 
The  pathless  ocean ;  but  that  ancient  ship 
Had  silent  vanished  ;  and  the  blue-eyed  child 
Saw  never  earthly  morning  dawn  again 
To  light  her  to  her  mother's  far-off  grave,  — 
The  lonely  grave  near  kirk  of  Eiladeen! 

I  saw,  as  in  a  dream.    A  woman  sat, 
Self-crowned  and  alone,  upon  a  throne 
Herself  had  reared  beneath  a  lofty  dome ; 
But  seaweed  tangles  were  amid  her  hair, 
And  sand  and  shells  strewed  thick  upon  her  robe. 
Not  fair,  nor  yet  ungentle,  was  her  brow, 
Though  she  had  veiled  womanhood  with  a  mind 
Most  like  a  man's  ;  and  all  to  win  a  place 
Was  never  meant  for  woman.    Let  her  speak. 

"  I  left  the  home  I  loved  not  overmuch, 
And  did  unsex  myself,  that  I  might  be 
A  dabbler  in  diplomacy,  and  learn 
What  secret  wires  did  make  the  puppets  move. 
I  went  abroad  ;  and  made  my  home  for  years 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  a  papal  dome ; 
And  noted  petty  trifles,  —  little  things 
That  yet  do  make  the  sum  of  royalty,  — 
And  weighed  them  leisurely.    Full  well  I  knew 
Which  scale  must  touch  the  beam.     I  wrote  a  book; 
And  thought  to  fill  the  wide  world  with  my  name ; 
But,  ere  I  gave  its  pages  to  the  day, 
The  doom  was  meted  out  to  me  and  mine ; 
And  all  my  life,  half  wasted,  incomplete, 


148  A    PEDLLE. 

Was  dashed  out  at  one  blow ;  and  I  left  nought 

Behind  me  save  a  name  with  never  work 

To  crown  it,  as  I  do  crown  myself 

Knowing  what  would  have  been,  had  I  but  lived 

And  worked  out  all  the  purpose  of  my  soul."  — 

I  saw,  as  in  a  dream.    A  dark-browed  man 
Did  stand  before  me,  wearing  the  plumed  hat 
And  peaked  beard  of  Isabella's  reign. 
A  man,  whose  foot,  disdainful,  trod  the  sands ; 
Yet  sorrow  had  been  busy  with  his  brow, 
Leaving  rude  traces  there ;  though  the  proud  lip 
Had  never  tremble  in  its  curved  lines 
To  show  how  throbbed  the  poor  and  tortured  heart. 
Silent  he  stood  before  me;  cold  and  stern; 
Until  the  o'ermastering  soul  compelled  him  speak, 
And  as  he  spoke  his  eagle  eyes  grew  soft.* 


Go,  fling  in  the  river  that  glideth  by 

A  pebble  caught  up  from  the  shore, 
And  look  on  the  stars  and  the  quiet  sky 

That  never  shall  see  it  more ; 
And  give,  if  you  will,  a  passing  moan 

To  some  beloved  at  rest, 
Or  unto  some  hope  forever  gone; 
Then  look  on  the  river's  breast ! 
No  trace  of  what  has  been  is  left ; 
Onward  the  troubled  wave  hath  swept; 

Right  softly  the  waters  flow ; 
And  they  tell  no  tale  to  the  grassy  lea, 
And  they  bear  no  murmur  unto  the  sea, 
But  the  pebble  lies  below. 
And  it  keepeth  its  place, 
Though  never  a  trace 
Of  its  grave  shall  the  pale  stars  see ! 


O  MAUD,  my  little  Maud ! 
Art  looking  to  the  skies, 

*  Unfinished. 


MAUD.  149 

As  if  from  those  far  fields  of  blue  thou'dst  won 

The  color  of  thine  eyes  ? 
Or  from  those  rays  of  morning  light 
Hadst  caught  the  tinting  warm  and  bright 

That  on  thy  tresses  lies  ? 

O  Maud,  my  little  Maud ! 

Thy  hand  rests  in  my  hand, 
With  more  tender  trust,  truer  lovingness, 

Than  any  in  the  land. 
There  is  no  fear  within  thine  eyes, 
Nor  shadow  of  a  shy  surprise, 
To  break  my  fairy  wand. 

O  Maud,  my  little  Maud ! 

Thy  life  hath  but  begun, 
While  mine  hath  travelled  for  many  a  day 

Toward  its  setting  sun. 
Ere  the  full  morning  of  thy  day, 
My  passed  one  shall  flee  away 
As  with  a  race  that's  run. 

O  Maud,  my  little  Maud ! 

Leave  me  not  yet  alone ; 
Thy  spring  will  be  flush  with  its  fairest  flowers 

When  I  am  dead  and  gone ! 
I  fold  my  weary  hands  to  pray 
That  through  thy  bright  or  cloudy  day 
GOD  keep  thee,  little  one ! 

O  Maud,  my  little  Maud ! 

Yet  closer  to  my  breast, 
That  on  thy  brow,  that  on  thy  cheek,  thine  eyes, 

My  pale  lips  may  be  pressed. 
Smooth  with  thy  hand  my  gray  hairs  o'er, 
For  only  this  once,  —  nevermore, 
For  I  shall  be  at  rest. 

O  Maud,  my  little  Maud ! 

My  feet  press  on  the  shore, 
Where  the  faithful  of  earth  may  not  fear  to  tread, 

Since  Christ  hath  trod  before. 
O  little  Maud,  when  I  shall  sleep, 
May  GOD  our  Father  watch  and  keep 
And  love  thee  evermore ! 


150  1857. 


1857. 

THE  last  morn  of  the  year 
In  its  earliest  dawn  is  here, 
But  clouds  upon  its  cradle  hours  are  lying; 
For  through  the  starless  night,  but  now  o'erpast, 
The  rain  fell  thick  and  fast ; 
And  through  the  leafless  trees 
The  phantom  of  a  summer  breeze 

So  wearily  went  sighing. 
But  the  wind  hath  gone  to  rest 
As  a  weary  child  in  slumber  blest ; 
And  o'er  the  hill-top's,  dim  and  cold,  appears 

The  pale  ghost  of  a  day, 

All  wrapped  in  clouds,  and  cradled  unto  tears ; 
As  if  all  hope  of  sunshine  were  a  dream 
Too  brightly  glorious  to  gleam 
On  that  dull  shadow's  way ! 

The  last  day  of  the  year; 
And  from  its  cradled  sleep  the  morn  is  waking, 

And  through  the  storm-clouds  breaking, 
Far-off  the  blue  and  smiling  skies  appear. 

A  type  of  hope, 
That  to  the  heart  grief-riven, 

Doth  softly  ope 

The  golden  gates,  the  everlasting  doors  of  Heaven ! 
O  tender  Hope  !  that  with  thy  angel  hand 

Dost  wipe  away  our  tears. 
O  glorious  Hope !  that  lightest  up  the  years 

Till  on  the  silent  shore 

(Where  the  heart  and  time  beat  nevermore) 

Our  failing  feet  shall  stand; 

Till  o'er  the  bitter  wave, 

That  floweth  to  the  grave, 

A  light  shall  dawn  as  from  eternity ; 

Till,  guided  by  thy  hand, 
Within  the  portals  of  the  Better  Land 
Thou  leavest  us,  —  as  those 
Who,  having  found  repose 
Beneath  the  Love  of  God,  have  no  more  need  of  thee ! 

The  last  day  of  the  year ! 
What  memories  doth  it  bring 
Of  crowned  summer,  and  of  autumn,  bright 
With  the  promise  of  the  spring ! 


1857.  151 

Earth  hath  not  failed  to  yield 
Her  ripened  harvests  to  the  reaper's  hands : 

And  every  waving  field 
Hath  paid  the  tribute  that  hard  toil  demands 

And  freely  given  np 

Its  wealth  of  golden  grain. 

But  for  the  poor  man's  eup, 

Who  shall  replenish  it?    In  vain 

Shall  his  children  cry  for  bread. 

The  heat  and  burthen  of  the  day  he  bore ; 

The  earth  was  heavy  with  his  tread, 
And  with  pale  drops  his  weary  brows  were  wet. 
He  brought  the  ripened  harvests  to  your  door, 
Laying  up  treasures  for  you ;  and  yet 
The  fire  is  cold  upon  his  hearth; 
Famine  at  his  threshold  stands, 

And  he  lieth  upon  the  earth. 
Or  he  watcheth,  with  folded  hands, 
For  the  dawning  of  that  day 
(He  thinks  not  far  away) 
When  the  Hunger-pain  shall  cease, 
And  the  Fever-thirst  be  quelled ! 
When  the  pining  soul  that  had  rebelled, 
Owning  its  judgment  just, 
Shall  fling  aside  the  dust, 
And  the  worn  heart  be  at  peace! 
Yet,  "  blessed  are  the  poor  1 " 
For  the  Holiest  came  to  them. 
The  sceptre  of  all  the  worlds  he  bore ; 

The  stars  were  under  his  feet; 
And  his  Father's  love  was  the  diadem 
Enringiug  his  brows,  as  the  crown  most  meet 
For  the  Child  of  Bethlehem ! 
Yea;  "  blessed  are  the  poor;  " 
For  the  gospel  was  preached  to  them; 
And  the  Lord  of  all  as  a  poor  man  came 
To  the  w^orld  that  he  had  made. 
And  he  suffered  alone  —  alone  — 

The  Highest,  Holiest  One; 

"  Enduring  the  cross,  despising  the  shame, 

For  the  glory  before  him  set." 

O  Man !  thou  art  very  poor ; 

Grim  Want  is  standing  at  thy  door; 

But,  forget  not,  'mid  Poverty's  sharpest  stings, 

Or,  as  onward  is  sounding  thy  weary  tread, 
That  the  Lord  of  Lords  and  King  of  Kings 

"  Had  not  where  to  lay  his  head !  " 
Eemember !  the  brow  of  thy  God  hath  been  wet 


152  1857. 

With  the  blood  of  agony ; 

And  the  Lamb  that  was  slain  for  the  sins  of  the  world 
Laid  down  his  life  for  thee ! 

Depart,  Old  Year !  thy  work  is  done  ; 
Thy  task  complete;  thy  destined  mission  o'er; 
And  thou  mayst  calmly  sleep ; 

Thy  race  is  run! 
But  some  poor  hearts  of  earth  shall  throb  and  beat 

With  a  bitterness,  evermore, 
Unto  au  agony  and  horror,  meet 
For  a  deed  that  thou  hast  known. 
The  sound  thereof  hath  flown 

To  the  remotest  strand ; 
And  the  nations  tears  of  blood  shall  weep 

O'er  a  sin-defiled  land, 
Till  its  name  shall  be  blotted  from  the  scroll, 

As  of  that  which  hath  long  been  dead ; 

And  it  go  down  to  dust,  as  a  corse  whence  the  soul 

With  the  life  forever  hath  fled. 

The  last  night  of  the  year ! 
Slowly  the  moments  go. 
I  hear,  far  off,  the  unending  flow 

Of  a  river  that  runneth  near; 
And,  through  the  hush  that  the  wind  doth  mock, 
I  hear  a  clear  bell's  chime ; 
The  striking  of  the  clock. 

It  numbereth  o'er, 
With  an  echo  "  nevermore," 
The  throbbing  pulses  of  the  passing  time, 
The  dying  of  the  year ! 

O  year  that  diest, 

Going  we  know  not  whither,  but  never  to  return, 
Pale  on  thy  wintry  couch  thou  liest, 

And  for  thy  funeral  urn, — 
Thy  only  landmark  in  the  long  To  Be,  — 
The  morrow's  dawn  shall  bring  thee  memory. 

We  have  no  more: 
Save  bitter  thoughts  o'er  that  which  might  have  been,  — 

The  unattainable  of  the  passed  year, 
Which  holdeth  yet  uncertain  tenure  in  the  days 
That  stretch  so  far  and  wide  before, 

And  are  not  seen, 
But  with  a  veiled  mien, 
And  through  the  reflex  of  unsteady  rays 
Caught  half  from  Hope,  and  half  from  Fear, 


H.  B.  H.  153 

And  mocking  our  poor  bosoms  evermore ! 

O  hopes  of  earth,  that  faded  long  ago; 

O  dreams  of  joy,  that  never  saw  the  day, 

About  your  graves  a  mournful  chant  doth  flow; 

The  dirge  of  time  o'er  fair  things  passed  away. 

And  ive,  too,  wail  and  weep 
O'er  all  the  beauty  that  doth  sleep 
Where  hearts  are  silent ;  and  o'er  all  the  love 
That  hath  gone  from  us  to  a  Better  Land. 
A*nd  with  veiled  brows  we  stand 

Around  our  lonely  hearth 
(So  lonely  now,  so  very  desolate), 

Yet  feeling  that,  above 
In  calm  repose,  our  lost  beloved  wait 
Till  God  our  fetters  shall  unbind, 
And  we  in  yon  bright  Heaven  find 
The  love  and  beauty  that  hath  gone  from  earth. 

The  bell  hath  ceased  its  chime ; 

The  year  is  dead. 
We  move  o'er  the  grave  of  Time, 

And  softly  let  us  tread. 

Softly,  — as  if  our  best  beloved  lay  beneath, 
Hushed  in  the  long  and  silent  sleep  of  death ; 
Softly ;  for  the  bell  hath  ceased  its  chime. 
The  year  is  dead ! 


ft.  B.  ft. 

FATHER  in  Heaven !    We  bow  before  thy  throne, 

And  for  an  erring  soul  we  lift  the  prayer ; 
Thou  canst  release  from  sin,  and  thou  alone! 
Let  not  our  plea  be  wholly  lost  in  air, 
And  turn  not  from  us  in  our  need ; 
For  humbly  do  we  plead. 

Father  in  Heaven  !    Be  thou  about  his  path, 

And  win  him  gently  from  the  downward  way; 
And  lovingly,  in  mercy,  not  in  wrath, 
Make  him  to  see  thy  everlasting  day ; 
Nor  dread  its  coming,  as  a  soul 
That  wanders  from  its  goal. 

Father  in  Heaven !  Not  doubting  do  we  pray. 

We  have  the  promise  of  thy  Holy  One,  — 

"From  him  that  pleads  I  will  not  turn  away; 


154  THOUGHTS. 

And  he  that  trusts  I  will  not  leave  alone. 
Who  asketh  shall  receive  of  me 
Life  for  eternity." 

Father  in  Heaven !    We  know  in  whom  we  trust ; 

There  is  no  shade  of  turning  found  in  thee. 
On  thee,  as  on  a  rock,  we  worms  of  dust 
May  build  our  hopes,  and  know  they  will  not  flee. 
Therefore  we  come,  and  at  thy  throne 
Plead  for  this  erring  one. 

His  feet  are  straying  in  forbidden  ways ; 

Bright  seems  the  world  that  he  hath  entered  in ; 
His  soul  is  caught  in  its  deceptive  maze, 
And  feels  not  yet  its  fetters  are  of  sin. 
Thoughtless  he  wanders  from  the  track ; 
Is  there  no  turning  back  ? 

The  world  lies  all  before  him ;  veiled  in  light 

That  masks  the  darkness  brooding  underneath. 
Life's  web  seems  woven  of  all  hues,  most  bright 
With  hope  and  pleasure ;  but  the  woof  is  Death ! 
He  sees  not  dark,  because  of  light ; 
Yet  surely  cometh  night ! 

Father  in  Heaven !    Tor  this  poor  child  of  earth 
We  fold  our  hands  in  prayer ;  beseeching  thee 
That  thou  wouldst  lead  him  from  the  way  of  death 
And  give  him  life  that  is  eternally. 
Keep  o'er  him  here  true  watch  and  guard 
Through  morning  and  through  night; 
And,  in  "  the  world  that  makes  this  right," 
Be  thou  his  sure  reward ! 


O  HEART  of  mine, 

Speak  thou  !    Is  it  so  sad  a  thing  to  die  ? 
Dost  weep  because  the  mandate  hath  gone  forth, 
That  calls  thee  hence  away  ?    What  though  thy  path 
Is  flush  with  summer  roses,  and  no  blight 
Is  on  their  beauty?     Said  they  not  of  old 
"  Whom  the  gods  love  die  young  "  ?    And  yet  they  knew 
No  hope  beyond  the  grave,  save  for  the  great, 
The  crowned  ones  of  earth.    But  for  the  meek, 


THOUGHTS.  155 

The  lowly,  and  the  poor,  this  world  was  all. 

Warrior  and  prince,  and  bard  and  priest  alone, 

Had  place  in  their  hereafter.     Peasants  died, 

As  of  the  "earth,  earthjV  without  a  hope. 

Children,  that  with  their  merry  voices  made 

Sunshine  within  a  gentle  mother's  heart, 

Were  laid  like  broken  flowers  in  the  dust, 

And  were  not  any  more.     And  woman's  love  — 

The  love  that  crowned  as  mother  and  as  wife  — 

Was  but  a  thing  of  earth,  and  perished  all 

With  the  warm  heart  that  gave  it  utterance. 

This  earth,  unto  the  loving  hearts  of  old, 

Was  all  in  all.     But  unto  us  it  is 

As  the  passing  of  a  night  whose  stars  shall  fade 

Before  the  dawning  of  eternal  day. 

We  have  a  Hope,  not  builded  on  the  sand, 

We  have  a  Joy  enduring  through  all  time, 

We  have  a  Faith,  God-given  and  most  sure, 

A  Trust  that  fadeth  not  away  forever; 

We  have  the  promise  of  the  Holy  One, 

The  GOD  who  cannot  lie !     And  when  we  give 

The  dust  of  our  beloved  to  the  dust, 

We  know  it  is  but  for  a  little  time,  — 

The  passing  of  a  night,  —  that  with  the  morn 

Shall  come  reunion. 

Life  is  a  shadow,  — 

A  cloud  may  blot  it  out;  a  breath  of  wind 
Suffice  to  change  it  into  nothingness. 
Or  still  its  throb  forever.     Yet  we  cling 
Unto  this  shadow  as  a  drowning  man 
To  any  straw  that  floats  upon  the  wave. 
We  dread  the  hour  when  the  sun  shall  set 
And  the  shadow  fade  into  the  darkness,  — 
Darkness  that  is  another  name  for  Death  ! 
O  Life  of  Earth !  —  the  shadow  that  doth  flit 
So  swiftly  past  our  souls,  yet  as  it  flies 
Doth  break  our  chain,  and  set  our  spirit  free ; 
O  Life  of  Earth !  a  Proteus-shape  is  thine ; 
Changeful  and  various ;  a  feather,  swayed 
By  every  breath  of  wind ;  a  flake  of  foam, 
Tossed  to  and  fro  upon  the  ocean  wave ; 
A  mote  that  danceth  in  some  sunny  ray, 
Yet  dieth  in  the  shadow.    Unto  all 
Most  frail  and  lovely  things  is  this  our  life 
Resemblant ;  and  yet  hope,  and  love,  and  faith 
May  give  it  strength  to  suffer  and  endure 
Such  sharpest  agony  as  pales  man's  lip 
E'en  in  remembering.    Ofttimes  life  dureth, 


156  THOUGHTS. 

Ephemeral,  the  bursting  of  a  spark 

That  flashes  but  to  fade ;  or  it  may  have 

A  longer  term  of  being,  and  yet  fall 

Like  earliest  blooms  of  spring,  touched  by  the  chill 

Of  winter's  lingering  frost.     Some  pulses  keep 

Such  even  measure  through  the  gliding  years, 

They  scarcely  jar  the  secret  springs  of  life ; 

So  the  oil  wastes  silently,  and  at  last 

They  bow  their  heads  as  some  o'erweary  child, 

And  so  they  sleep.     But  other  hearts  there  be 

That  beat  themselves  away  in  fever-pulses ; 

Finding  no  rest,  no  peace,  save  in  the  grave ; 

That  quiet  bourn  where  hearts  beat  nevermore ! 

O  Life !  O  Death !  fierce  is  the  war  ye  wage ; 
The  earth  is  rank  with  blood,  and  green  with  graves, 
And  yet  ye  meet  at  last  within  the  heart, 
Contending  there  as  for  a  citadel. 
The  walls  have  long  been  sapped ;  and,  as  they  fall, 
Death  rushes  in,  and,  victor,  as  he  thinks, 
Doth  stretch  his  hand  to  grasp  the  laurel-wreath 
That  falls  in  dust  and  ashes  at  his  feet ; 
While  Life,  true  conqueror,  relumes  her  torch, 
And,  crowned  with  amaranth,  breaks  every  bond 
Of  time  and  sense ;  and  with  untiring  wing 
Doth  take  her  flight  sublime  unto  the  realms 
Where  Death  is  powerless,  and  Life  supreme ! 

It  should  not  be  so  sad  a  thing  to  die. 
Life  is  not  worth  so  much  that  we  should  hope 
To  have  our  sole  abiding  city  here. 
What  though  the  morning  dawn  without  a  cloud? 
Ere  noon  the  tempest  may  sweep  over  Earth, 
And  all  the  promise  of  the  early  day 
But  end  in  desolation  and  in  death ; 
The  darker  doom  because  of  suddenness. 
O  Life !  while  yet  unconsciously  we  stand 
Upon  thy  threshold,  knowing  not  the  hues 
Wherewith  thy  woof  may  yet  be  deeply  dyed; 
How  like  a  vision  fair  and  glorious 
Doth  show  the  vista  that  before  us  lies ! 
Earth  hath  no  after-bloom  like  that  she  wears 
When  the  young  heart  drinks  in  her  loveliness. 
The  sun  shines  never  with  such  radiant  light 
As  in  life's  morning  freshness ;  and  the  skies  — 
Though  still  serene  they  smile  above  our  heads  — 
Are  never  half  so  blue,  as  when  they  flashed 
In  fulness  of  their  glory  on  the  heart, 


THOUGHTS.  157 

The  passionate  heart  of  youth.    And  oh,  we  dream 

Such  wondrous  dreams  of  that  which  is  to  be ! 

Shaping  these  fantasies  tit  our  sweet  will, 

As  sculptors  see  within  the  marble  block 

The  perfect  image  of  their  unborn  thought. 

But  not  as  they  carve  from  the  living  stone 

The  likeness  of  their  thought,  may  we  give  shape 

And  substance  to  our  dreams.     They  mock  us  still ; 

Far-oif,  and  gleaming  as  the  stars  of  heaven 

That  shine  far  down  within  the  river's  heart, 

Yet  stoop  not  from  their  thrones,  albeit  to  bless. 

And  as  those  stars  grow  dim  before  the  dawn, 

So  hopes  of  youth  are  slowly  lost  to  view 

When  life's  more  earnest  themes  do  fill  the  soul. 

And  as  the  stars  are  lost  in  light  of  day, 

So  youth  itself  dies  into  stately  prime ; 

Forgetting  its  time  of  dreams.     Silently, 

The  hand  that  labors,  and  the  brain  that  works, 

Fling  dust  upon  our  fancies,  till  we  see 

Their  old  familiar  faces  nevermore  ; 

So  deeply  they  lie  buried  'neath  the  sands 

Blown  o'er  their  graves  by  such  destroying  winds 

As  custom  and  as  change.     And  years  glide  on, 

And  darker  changes  come ;  and  in  the  cares, 

The  petty  troubles  of  our  daily  life, 

All  memory  of  our  early  dreams  dies  out ; 

And  we  forget  them,  as  they  had  not  been 

The  sunlight  of  our  youth.    Yet  were  they  fair,  — 

Those  golden  shadows  of  an  inborn  light 

That  never  more  may  shine  upon  our  path ; 

The  light  of  youth  and  love.     It  faded  all ; 

But  our  tried  hearts  are  stronger  and  more  pure 

For  the  fire  that  made  ashes  of  our  dreams. 

The  mirage  fades  that  with  delusive  scenes 

Had  veiled  life's  desert-sands;  the  quiet  wave, 

Wherein  we  thought  to  quench  our  burning  thirst, 

Is  but  a  mocking  semblance ;  and  is  gone 

Ere  we  can  tread  its  shore.     Some  weary  hearts, 

Faint  with  the  agony  of  hope  deferred, 

Lie  down  and  die.     They  have  no  strength  to  tread 

The  widening  wastes  that  seem  to  stretch  before, 

And  so  they  fall  asleep,  with  never  thought 

Of  that  fair  land  where  living  fountains  flow. 

Youth  passes  from  us  with  its  careless  smiles, 
Its  bounding  pulses,  and  its  laughter  sweet ; 
And  passes  from  us  never  to  return ! 
For  with  our  years  come  sadness  and  regret ; 


158  THOUGHTS. 

Our  smiles  less  frequent  are,  and  often  forced ; 
Our  hearts  beat  slowly ;  painfully,  perchance. 
And  all  our  laughter  is  as  crackling  thorns ; 
And  for  our  tears  that  were  so  swift  to  flow, 
Their  stream  is  bitterness,  or  stagnant  all. 

Life  seems  so  fair,  —  veiled  in  such  golden  light, 
When  first  we  tread  its  mazes.     Hope  doth  stand, 
With  such  a  glory  on  her  radiant  hair, 
Her  white  hands  beckoning  the  young  heart  on 
To  scenes  that  seem  the  fairer  for  the  charm 
That  distance  lends  them.    Joy  scatters  flowers 
Upon  our  path ;  and  flowers,  so  rich  in  bloom, 
Of  such  rare  fragrance,  that  our  eyes  see  not 
The  dust  from  whence  they  sprang,  nor  yet  the  death 
That  lurketh  under  all  their  loveliness. 
Love,  riseth,  too,  upon  our  tranced  sight 
In  likeness  of  an  angel;  and  our  hearts 
Go  forth  to  meet  him  with  such  eager  trust, 
And  crown  him  with  a  garland ;  give  him  place 
Within  the  secret  temple  of  our  life, 
And  make  him  priest  of  all  its  mysteries. 
Yea;  crown  him  king  of  that  wild  realm,  the  heart, 
Unknowing  what  we  do.    For  weal  —  for  woe  — 
The  tyrant  angel  comes ;  and  we  take  home 
Life's  deepest  joy;  or  cherish  in  our  hearts 
The  serpent  that  shall  sting  us  unto  death. 
Worth  more  than  these,  another  shape  shall  rise, 
White-robed  and  glorious,  changeless  as  the  star 
That  guides  the  mariner  o'er  ocean's  waste. 
More  steadfast  far  than  human  love  can  be ; 
Stronger  than  death,  —  eternal,  as  is  GOD  ! 
Faith,  meekest  angel  of  the  host  of  heaven, 
Thou  movest  o'er  the  desert,  fainting  not ; 
Thou  treadst  the  waters  with  unshrinking  feet ; 
And  walkest  through  the  furnace,  as  the  flames 
Were  harmless  breath  of  cool  and  summer- winds ! 
No  broken  reed  art  thou,  but  as  a  rock 
Whereon  we  lean,  and  fear  not  any  more. 
Patient  we  tread  Death's  Valley  by  thy  side, 
Upheld  by  thee ;  and  though  our  feet  recoil 
—  We  are  but  mortal  —  from  the  river  cold, 
It  is  but  dust  that  struggleth  with  its  doom. 
The  soul  doth  look  beyond  the  waters  dark ; 
And  eyes,  not  sealed  yet,  rest  on  the  shore 
Where  stand  the  "  shining  ones ;  "  and  ears  that  hear 
No  more  of  earth  are  open  to  the  song 


"ALONE."  159 

The  waiting  angels  sing;  while  on  the  lip  — 
That  never  more  speaks  lovingly  to  us  — 
A  smile  is  lingering,  as  a  shadow  caught 
From  the  dawning  lisrht  of  heaven ! 


"  atone." 

THE  moon  hath  set;  and  in  the  darkened  skies 
Only  the  pale,  pale  stars  are  shining  now : 

A  passing  ripple  o'er  the  river  flies, 
But  no  wind  comes  to  cool  my  fevered  brow. 

Vainly  mine  eyes  do  pierce  the  shades  of  night, 
As  if  they  thought  some  loving  eyes  to  meet. 

Vainly  I  listen  for  a  footfall  light ; 
Unto  my  heart  was  never  sound  so  sweet. 

The  darkness  mantles  me  as  some  thick  cloud ; 

The  night  falls  round  me  as  a  heavy  pall ; 
Before  me  lies  a  shadow,  and  a  shroud 

That  veileth  o'er  that  shadow,  —  this  is  all. 

O  eyes,  close-sealed  from  the  light  of  day ! 

No  more  to  linger  lovingly  on  me ; 
O  lips,  whose  music  hath  been  stilled  for  aye! 

Ye  leave  me  nothing  but  a  memory. 

O  hands,  crossed  meekly  on  that  quiet  breast ! 

Your  tender  clasp  shall  comfort  me  no  more ; 
O  gentle  heart,  the  truest  and  the  best ! 

Your  life  is  living  on  another  shore. 

Beloved,  on  thy  lips  I  press  mine  own. 

They  have  no  kiss  for  me  —  there  is  no  breath. 
My  heart  is  beating,  but  it  beats  alone ; 

I  am  alone  with  silence  and  with  Death ! 


"Bwfeen 

WHO  spoke  of  broken  hearts?    It  well  may  be 
There  are  such  things  in  this  sad  world  of  ours, 

Wrecks  scattered  lie  upon  the  glorious  sea, 
And  no  poor  land  but  hath  some  broken  flowers. 


160  SPRING. 

Who  spoke  of  broken  hearts,  as  if  in  doubt 
That  hearts  could  break?  Are  they  not  formed  of  dust? 

They  throb,  and  beat  their  little  tenure  out 
In  grief  or  joy,  till  death  stills  all  their  lust. 

Some  hearts  break  easily.     O  happy  hearts ! 

O'er  their  warm  tide  doth  pass  an  icy  breath ; 
They  linger  not  till  every  hope  departs ; 

For  the  quick  pulse  is  sudden  stilled  by  death. 

And  some  hearts  break,  yet  live  !    Their  crimson  tide 
Doth  ebb  and  flow,  and  on  the  surface  lies 

No  telltale  wreck.     'Tis  buried  deep  by  pride ; 
The  waves  of  daily  life  above  it  rise ; 

Their  mocking  spray  doth  blind  all  other  eyes ; 

Their  wreaths  of  foam  are  as  a  veil  o'er  all 
The  deadly  ruin  that  below  them  lies ; 

And  jest  and  smile  are  of  that  corse  the  pall. 

Yet  lips  writhe  sometimes,  and  hot  tears  will  start ; 

The  torture  of  the  rack  must  wring  some  moan ; 
But  unseen  these  witnesses  of  the  heart 

That  breaks  perforce,  and  yet  must  break  alone. 

Who  spoke  of  broken  hearts?    Oh,  count  them  not! 

Let  them  go  down  to  silence  and  to  sleep ; 
Their  anguish  stilled,  their  weary  pain  forgot, 

No  more  to  throb,  and  no  more  tears  to  weep. 


WHAT  dost  thou  bring  unto  us,  O  Spring? 

A  Summer  whose  roses  are  dead ; 
A  lightning  gleam  of  an  old-time  dream 

Whose  glory  forever  hath  fled. 
A  bitter  wail  in  thy  softest  gale 

Sounds  sadly  upon  our  ear ; 
And  mournful  tones,  and  requiem  moans 

Are  in  every  song  we  hear. 

What  dost  thou  bring  unto  us,  O  Spring ! 

But  a  mocking  memory 
Of  joys  gone  by,  as  old  landmarks  fly, 

When  we  sail  upon  the  sea. 


SPUING.  161 

Vainly  our  hands,  over  barren  sands, 

We  stretch  to  the  pleasant  shore 
That  from  us  flies,  that  behind  us  lies ; 

We  never  shall  see  it  more. 

What  dost  thou  bring  unto  us,  O  Spring ! 

But  a  bitterness  of  regret? 
A  knell  that  rings  over  sweetest  things ; 

A  dirge  we  cannot  forget. 
What  dost  thou  bring?    A  shadow  to  fling 

O'er  roses  that  soon  may  bloom ; 
Some  drops  caught  up  from  life's  bitter  cup; 

Some  memories  of  the  tomb. 

What  does  thou  bring  unto  us,  0  Spring! 

But  a  shadow  of  the  past ; 
A  thought  of  light  o'er  whose  day  the  night 

A  gathering  gloom  hath  cast. 
A  thought  of  eyes  on  whose  glory  lies 

A  seal  that  we  cannot  break ; 
A  yearning  deep  for  the  hearts  that  sleep 

Nevermore  on  earth  to  wake ! 

What  dost  fchou  bring  unto  us,  O  Spring! 

With  thy  sunshine  and  thy  flowers? 
A  loveliness  and  a  holiness, 

Of  another  world  than  ours. 
A  star  whose  light  shineth  through  death's  night ; 

A  hope  that  shall  never  die ; 
And  one  pure  dream  with  its  holy  beam 

Of  life's  immortality. 

What  shalt  thou  bring  unto  us,  O  Spring ! 

When  our  hearts  are  still  at  last ; 
When  o'er  our  rest  in  the  earth's  cold  breast 

The  Winter  storms  have  passed? 
A  veil  of  green,  as  a  memory  seen, 

To  be  woven  o'er  our  sleep ; 
Eoses  to  bloom  o'er  the  silent  tomb ; 

And  the  night  soft  tears  to  weep. 

What  shalt  thou  bring  unto  us,  O  Spring ! 

When  the  years  have  passed  by ; 
When  every  one  who  loved  us  is  gone, 

And  we  have  no  memory? 
Sunshine  and  flowers  o'er  this  dust  of  ours 

The  returning  years  shall  shed. 


162  WHJTE    VIOLETS. 

Until  the  day  when  our  GOD  shall  say 
To  the  graves,  "  Give  up  your  dead !  " 

What  shalt  thou  bring:  unto  us,  O  Spring! 

When  we  lie  in  our  last  long  sleep ; 
When  the  poor  clay  that  mouldereth  away, 

We  give  unto  GOD  to  keep? 
Softly  the  years  that  do  stanch  all  tears 

Shall  vanish  within  time's  urn ; 
Till  that  bright  morn  when  souls  shall  be  born 

Into  eternity ! 


UfoUte. 

O  VIOLETS,  pale  violets, 

That  scattered  at  my  feet  do  lie ; 
Not  less  the  sweet  for  all  the  tears, 
The  gathered  drops  of  many  years, 

That  fall  above  them  silently. 

O  violets,  pale  violets ! 

How  sadly  does  your  sweetness  cling 
To  all  that  was  most  dear  in  life ! 
Past  moments,  that  with  joy  were  rife, 

Are  rich  with  memories  of  the  spring. 

O  violets,  pale  violets ! 

The  dust  upon  your  beauty  lies ; 
And  broken  petals,  bloom  destroyed, 
Have  left  within  your  world  a  void 

No  after-growth  of  buds  supplies. 

O  violets,  pale  violets ! 

A  bitter  lesson  ye  recall ; 
How  all  the  hopes,  so  bright,  so  fair, 
Have  left  me  nothing  but  —  they  were ! 

They  budded,  blossomed ;  this  was  all. 

O  violets,  pale  violets ! 

I  fold  ye  gently  to  my  breast, 
As  if  your  fading  brought  some  spell; 
A  whisper  of  one  low  farewell, 

To  sound  when  I  shall  be  at  rest. 

O  violets,  pale  violets ! 
I  do  beseech  ye  that  your  breath 


A    BROKEN  DREAM.  163 

May  float  around  my  lowly  grave. 
'Tis  but  a  simple  boon  jfc^rave ; 
Yet  granting  it  will  sweeten  death. 


O  violets,  pale  violets ! 

Would  I  might  breathe  a  spell  o'er  ye ; 
A  spell  of  might  that  still  should  keep 
Some  leaflets  green  above  my  sleep,  — 

Some  ivy  leaves  of  memory. 


&  Broiten 

O  DREAM,  that  was  so  golden  sweet, 
That  never  hadst  a  shape  of  ill ; 

Thou  liest  at  my  weary  feet 
A  pallid  corse,  most  cold  and  still. 

Back  to  my  heart,  O  Dream,  and  there 

Find  fittest  urn  of  burial; 
The  shadow  of  its  lone  despair 

Shall  fall  above  thy  dust,  a  pall. 

Rest  thou  in  peace !    Spring  bringeth  back 
A  beauty  to  the  earth  and  sky ; 

But  o'er  thy  unreturning  track 
No  after  sunshine  soft  shall  lie ! 

Q  Dream  that  faded  like  a  dream ! 

I  scarcely  moaned,  I  scarcely  wept, 
O'er  the  swift  dying  of  the  beam 

That  in  mine  heart  of  hearts  had  slept. 

And  it  is  dead  !    Its  light  hath  gone 

Forever  from  my  weary  way ; 
With  never  wailing,  never  moan, 

I  saw  the  night  flow  o'er  my  day. 

O  Dream !  O  heart !  O  corse !  O  grave ! 

Keep  silence  iYi  your  agony ; 
Nor  let  the  empty  worldling  crave 

Such  bitter  theme  for  mockery. 


164  A  PICTURE  FOR   MY  GALLERY. 


f!  for  ntg  ©allcrg. 


BREEZES  were  blowing  through  some  ancient  trees, 
Whereon  the  faintest  tracery  of  green 
The  spring  had  pencilled.    A  voice  of  waters 
Did  blend  itself  with  sighing  of  the  wind ; 
And,  from  the  midst  of  myriad  blades  of  grass, 
Was  breathed  the  breath  of  sweetest  violets. 
A  road  wound  through  the  forest,  rarely  used. 
Pleasant  it  was,  as  any  hope  of  youth 
That  makes  itself  a  path  through  fairest  scenes, 
And  dreams  not  of  the  storm.    There  came  a  sound 
Of  beating  hoofs,  that  on  the  stillness  broke 
Like  earliest  patterings  of  a  summer  shower 
Upon  low  cottage  eaves.     A  little  spring, 
That  seemed  to  nestle  'mid  the  spreading  roots 
Of  an  old  giant  oak,  flashed  on  the  eyes 
That  else  had  lingered  not ;  and  they  drew  rein, 
Won  by  the  quiet  beauty  of  the  spot. 
Young  were  the  riders ;  merry-hearted  too ; 
Gentle  and  loving,  —  so  they  lighted  down. 
And  on  the  margin  of  the  silver  spring 
Eeclining  sat,  the  while  their  lazy  steeds 
Did  crop  the  tender  herbage.    Life  did  wear 
Unto  those  hearts  a  glory  not  its  own, 
But  borrowed  from  the  future.    Both  were  young; 
And  one  was  lovely  as  a  poet's  dream 
When  first  he  dreameth.     Silently  they  sat, 
And  idly,  but  content ;  since  each  to  each 
Was  all  in  all.    They  spoke  not  of  the  past, 
And  had  no  thought  for  that  which  was  to  be. 
Enough  for  them  the  present  with  its  joy. 
They  saw  fair  flowers  blooming  at  their  feet ; 
A  cloudless  sky  blue  arching  o'er  their  heads,  — 
They  did  not  look  beyond ;  and,  hand  in  hand, 
Heart  throbbing  unto  heart,  they  whiled  away 
Some  hours  of  sunshine,  — hours  that  did  seem 
Stolen  from  Paradise,  they  were  so  sweet.    Night, 
Starry-crowned,  found  them  lingering  still, 
Unconscious  of  time's  passing.    Then  they  woke 
From  out  their  happy  dreaming,  and  went  home 
O'er  dewy  turf,  by  lone,  moon-lighted  ways, 
Saying  "  the  day  had  never  been  more  fair, 
Nor  night  more  beautiful !  " 


"DAY  OF  SMALL  THINGS."  165 


Urnes  for 

Recitative.     I  that  live ;  I  that  tread  the  earth  to-day,  — 
I  sing  of  the  beloved  who  lie  sleeping 
Where  our  voices   may  not  reach  them  any 

more. 

Air.     They  sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  no  waking,  — 
Above  their  rest  the  summer  morn  is  breaking, 

But  they  see  not  any  clay  : 
And  at  their  feet  a  mountain  stream  is  leaping 
Unto  the  sea,  with  music  flow,  on  sweeping, 

And  fast  it  glides  away. 
But  they  who  rest  beside  that  silver  river 
Hear  never  flow ;  see  not  the  lilies  shiver 

Where  the  waters  touch  the  shore. 
They  dwell  in  silence ;  and,  while  time  is  fleeting, 
They  count  it  not  by  weary  pulses  beating ; 
They  feel  not  any  more  I 


of  Entail 

DESPISE  not  thou  the  day  of  little  things. 

Take  heed; 
They  are  the  seed 

Whose  germ  shall  ripen  in  some  stateliest  tree, 
That  a  great  shadow  flings 
Across  some  quiet  lea; 
As  a  mystery  and  a  memory 
Above  a  thousand  springs. 
They  are  the  echo  of  a  wrord 
Which  sharper  far  than  any  sword 
Doth  cleave  through  boundless  space ; 
And  leaving,  in  passing,  scarce  a  trace, 
Doth  wound  some  gentle  heart 

Unto  the  death ; 
So  no  physician's  art 
Can  stay  the  feeble,  fluttering  breath, 

Or  heal  the  bitter  pain, 
And  raise  the  broken  flower  up  again. 
One  forward  step,  one  footprint  on  the  sands, 
May  leave  such  impress  on  the  land 
That  all  the  rain  of  all  the  years 

Can  never  wash  it  out. 

A  half-breathed  thought,  one  idle  doubt, 

Though  in  itself  ephemeral 


166         "LET  THE  KING'S  JUSTICE  PASSI" 

And  dead  beneath  the  pall, 
May  prove  the  source  of  bitterest  tears, 
That  shall  forever  flow 
For  irremediable  woe. 

Despise  not  little  things.     The  hand's  caress, 
The  word  of  tenderness, 

Are  quick  to  bless, 

And  have  long  life  in  some  true  memory. 
The  cup  of  water,  given  by  thee, 
From  out  thy  heart's  deep  charity, 
Hath  a  savor  of  sweet  sacrifice, 
That  shall  to  Heaven  arise 
And  bless  thee  in  the  giving 
Even  in  thy  earth-abode, 
As  a  proof  of  holy  living 
And  of  walking  with  thy  GOD. 
The  warning  word  that  in  some  heart  takes  root 

And  beareth  noble  fruit ; 

The  lesson  sweet  that  left  its  seal  upon  the  soul, 
And  winged  the  spirit  to  its  goal, 
Ye  count  but  little  things ; 
And  yet  they  never  die ! 
But  as  the  rays  that  from  one  focus  dark 

Do  light  on  every  part 
Of  the  vast  circle,  so  each  little  thing 
Hath  many  diverse  rays  to  fling 

Abroad  upon  the  earth. 
We  may  not  know  what  gave  them  birth ; 
We  only  feel  they  do  not  die, 
But  mingle  with  eternity. 
So  humble,  fervent  prayer; 
Its  breathings  are  not  lost  in  air, 

But  float  around  the  strings 
Of  those  sweet  harps  the  angels  strike  in  praise 
Of  YAHVEH,  "ANCIENT  OF  THE  DAYS." 


"  3Ut  tjje  I&infl'a  Justice  pass ! " 

A  STIR  upon  the  river's  brink,  — 

A  rush  of  wildly  hurrying  feet,  — 
A  thing  from  which  all  seem  to  shrink  j 
While  pale  looks  every  face  you  meet, 

And  a  horror  sits  thereon. 
Up,  into  the  morning  fresh  and  fair 
Out  of  the  river-slime 


CAPTIVE   AND   MONK.  167 

They  have  drawn  a  body.    It  lieth  there, 

Dead  in  that  summer  time ! 
It  lieth  there ;   and  the  pitiless  sun 
Stareth  down  on  the  pitiful  sight 

Of  a  thing  whose  race  is  run. 
It  lieth  there,  with  a  cheek  as  white 

As  the  hawthorn  blooms  above ; 
With  a  gleam  of  gold  on  the  tangled  hair 
Amid  whose  tresses,  rich  and  fair, 
Lingers  no  touch  of  love ! 

They  bore 

The  still  white  corse  within  their  cottage  door. 
To  them  it  had  no  name. 
No  bitter  thought  of  shame 
Made  their  hearts  hard,  and  tenderly 
They  laid  their  burden  down ; 

And  then  they  saw 
The  words  of  him  who  wore  their  country's  crown, 

Whose  word  was  law. 
"  Let  the  king's  justice  pass  !  " 

Alas! 
Swift  to  the  waiting  river  borne, 

And  in  the  face  of  morn, 
They  flung  that  fair  corse  in ;  and  let  it  go 
Where'er  those  waters  flow ; 

And  made  that  wave 
A  dark  and  unrevealiug  grave. 


Captifce    EtttJ 

A    Picture  for  my  Gallery. 

Monk.    Nay ;  fret  not  o'er  the  Past,  nor  cling  o'ermuch 
Unto  the  Future.    Patience  becometh 
A  captive  in  his  cell.     Have  patience,  then. 

Captive.  "Patience !"  ever  "patience !"  Is  there  no  word 
In  all  your  tongue  but  "  patience,"  which  to  choose, 
As  a  text  for  daily  preaching?     "  Patience  !  " 
Have  I  not  had  it  ?    All  these  weary  years, 
That  unto  you  brought  sunshine  and  sweet  flowers, 
Have  found  and  left  me  in  a  prison-cell. 
Alone,  dost  hear,  alone?    And  not  one  smile, 
One  look  from  loving  eyes,  to  cheer  my  soul ! 
Not  e'en  one  hope  to  linger  in  mine  heart ; 
And  yet  to  me  you  talk  of  "  patience !  "    Time, 
That  ancient  mocker  of  poor  human  dreams, 


1G8  SOMETHING  ABOUT  LOVE. 

Hath  brought  to  me  one  bitter  lesson  home. 

Forgetfuhiess  —  yet  I  cannot  learn  it. 

Soft  to  my  heart  glide  thoughts  of  former  joys ; 

And  on  my  dungeon-walls,  all  moist  and  cold, 

My  fancy  pencils  pictures  of  delight,  — 

Green  lawns,  cool  waters,  and  thick-foliaged  trees, 

Amid  whose  beauty  I  recline  at  will ; 

And  o'er  them  all  1  throw  the  soft,  warm  rays 

Of  an  unsetting  sun ;  and  in  that  glow 

—  What  though  imaginary?  —  my  spirit  basks 

As  never  in  the  sun  that  shines  for  all. 

Yea,  shines  for  all ;  and  yet  ye  shut  me  out. 

What  have  I  done,  that  on  my  limbs  the  chain 

Should  drag  so  heavily?    I  —  who  was  free 

As  any  breeze  in  Alpine  valley  blowing. 

O  happy  breeze !  would  I  were  but  as  free, 

So  I  might  rest  once  more  beneath  the  roof 

That  sheltered  me  in  childhood,  and  there  die ! 


<&0met|jmjj  about  Hofct. 

THE  love  that  trusteth  is  a  holy  thing; 
Oh,  guard  it  well !    Let  no  doubt  o'er  it  fling 
The  shadow  which  is  death ;  but  to  thy  breast 
Fold  thou  it  closely ;  it  will  give  thee  rest. 
Fear  not,  nor  falter.     Terror  may  assail ; 
The  fearful  racking  of  some  worldly  gale 
May  wring  thy  spirit  with  the  sharpest  pain ; 
But  one  true  heart  will  bring  thee  peace  again. 
Stay  thou  on  it,  as  on  a  rock,  thy  soul ; 
And  fiercely  though  the  waves  of  trouble  roll, 
They  shall  not  tear  thee  from  that  faithful  breast ; 
They  shall  not  bar  thee  from  that  perfect  rest. 
Certain  and  sure  thy  refuge.     "  Carking  care," 
Unquiet  hope,  and  unrest  come  not  there. 
"Pis  as  a  shrine  wherein  life's  holy  things 
Are  treasured ;  as  a  harp  whose  sacred  strings 
Sound  not  to  any  fingers  save  thine  own, 
For  thou  art  master-spirit,  —  thou,  alone ! 

The  love  that  sleepeth.    'Tis  a  jewel  rare 
That,  guarded  in  some  casket,  wasteth  there 
Its  brightness ;  and  its  beauty  hath  no  place 
Amid  the  glory  of  the  day's  glad  face ; 
And  is  no  more  than  the  poor  clay  inurned, 
Which,  lovely  once,  is  dust  to  dust  returned. 


SOMETHING   ABOUT  LOVE.  169 

The  love  that  sleepeth  is  a  mocking  thing; 
A  shadow,  and  no  substance ;  with  no  ring 
As  of  true  metal  when  we  strike  its  chords ; 
And  all  its  music  is  as  empty  words 
That  mock  us  with  their  hollow  nothingness ; 
And  have  no  meaning,  own  no  power  to  bless. 
The  love  that  sleepeth  is  a  lifeless  germ, 
That  finds  no  fruitage  at  its  being's  term ; 
A  bark,  left  stagnant  on  some  Dead  Sea  wave ; 
A  star,  which  hath  the  human  heart  for  grave  ; 
A  changeless  monotone;  an  aimless  strife; 
A  pulse  beating  idly ;  and  death  in  life ! 

The  love  that  clingeth.     Take  it  to  thy  heart, 
And  make  it  of  thy  very  self  a  part. 
It  will  not  leave  thee,  though  the  darkness  come ; 
And  where  thou  art,  it  only  feels  at  home. 
The  love  that  clingeth  seems  a  feeble  love, 
And  breezes  light  its  gossamer  fabric  prove. 
But  let  the  storm  come  fierce,  and  loud,  and  long, 
And  this  so  fragile  thing  grows  deep  and  strong, 
And  dares,  in  majesty  of  unbroken  might, 
Alike  the  burning  day  and  darkest  night. 

The  love  that  hopeth  hath  an  angel  form. 
As  a  white  dove  it  flitteth  through  the  storm 
Unto  the  light  that  shineth  far  away. 
Through  gloom  of  night  it  sees  the  dawning  day ; 
And  in  prophetic  vision  treads  the  shore 
Where  the  poor  heart  shall  hope  and  fear  no  more. 
What  though  the  darkness  shroud  it  as  a  pall, 
And  the  wild  tempest  rock  it?     Still,  through  all, 
It  sees  the  blue  sky  smiling;  and  its  trust 
O'ermasters  all  the  quailings  of  the  dust. 
What  though  the  spirit,  sick  and  shivering,  turn 
From  the  near  prospect  of  the  funeral  urn, 
And  cling  to  life  with  such  despairing  zeal 
As  only  those  who  hope  no  heaven  feel? 
Yet  love  that  hopeth,  pointing  to  the  sky, 
Can  bid  these  dark  and  fatal  terrors  fly ; 
And  lead  the  parting  soul,  with  gentle  hand, 
Into  the  haven  of  the  Better  Laud. 

The  love  that  weepeth.    Who  shall  count  its  tears? 
Have  they  not  fallen  since  the  Eden  years 
With  all  their  smiling  vanished  ?    In  the  prime, 
The  golden  fulness  of  that  Eden  time, 
Tears  were  not  known;  nor  could  they  be,  when  GOD 


170  SOMETHING   ABOUT  LOVE. 

The  fair  and  Paradisal  garden  trod. 

Sin  entered  there ;  and  tears  were  unto  Death 

As  the  dew  on  graves  scattered  by  the  breath 

Of  some  cold  wind ;  and  no  more  might  the  heart 

Of  man  beat  out  its  life,  and  have  no  part 

In  aught  that  summoned  tears !     Their  lava  tide 

Hath  "burst  the  strongest  barriers  of  pride; 

And  loosed  life's  crimson  torrent,  till  its  flow 

Did  meet  with  Death,  and  could  no  further  go. 

Their  stream,  congealed,  falls  on  the  heart  a  stone, 

Until  all  kindly  feeling  thence  hath  gone. 

Or  else  the  burning  drops  suffuse  the  brain, 

Till  Madness  cometh  with  its  mournful  train 

Of  mocking  laughter,  and  of  wailing  moan, 

And  plants  itself  on  Reason's  vacant  throne. 

Force  back  no  tears.    Let  their  sad  fountain  flow ; 

They  bring  relief  and  respite  to  our  woe, 

Easing  the  surcharged  heart.     Why  should  we  check 

Their  grateful  stream,  nor  have  them  at  our  beck? 

For  tears  are  sweet,  yea,  holy,  when  'tis  love 

Doth  shed  them;  and  oft  times  they  fall  above 

Some  one  beloved  who  strayeth  from  the  light 

Into  the  shadows  of  eternal  night. 

And  love  that  weepeth  may  have  power  to  win 

The  erring  spirit  from  the  way  of  sin ; 

Wrapping  it  round,  as  with  an  angel's  wing, 

So  safely  home  the  wandering  soul  to  bring. 

Are  not  tears  sacred  when  they  fall  above 

The  dust  of  that  we  dowered  with  our  love? 

And  shall  we,  like  the  stoic,  sternly  keep 

Our  grief  in  thraldom,  and  forbid  to  weep? 

Behold,  some  Rachel  for  her  children  weeping ; 

Some  Rispah,  desolate,  her  lone  watch  keeping, 

And  with  the  stoic  bid  that  fount  be  sealed ! 

Hath  not  GOD  blessed  it?    Hath  not  Goo  revealed 

That  tears  are  holiest,  since  he  hath  kept 

Oue  sweet  and  gracious  record,  —  "  Jesus  wept !  '* 

And  silent  love,  that  seemeth  aye  to  say, 
Am  I  so  cold?    'Tis  but  an  outward  veil} 
'Tis  but  the  ashes  covering  the  fire 
That  smoulclereth  beneath.     Let  but  a  breath 
Scatter  their  ashes,  and  the  flame  leaps  up 
A  quick  and  living  thing!     Am  I  so  cold? 
The  wave  that's  stillest'is  the  deepest  ever; 
And  love  that  waiteth  ready  on  the  tongue 
Is  not  the  truest  when  the  darkness  comes ; 
Clingcth  not  closest!  — 


A    JOHN  LEAF.  171 

The  love  that  prayeth.     Cast  it  not  from  thee ; 
It  armeth  thee  as  with  a  mighty  sword ; 
It  hath  a  spell  to  shield  thee  from  all  harm ; 
And  bears  thee  up,  and  dowers  thee  with  power 
As  'twere  to  tread  on  ploughshares  burning  red, 
And  from  the  fiery  ordeal  walk  unharmed ! 
It  doth  not  trust  in  mortal  hand  alone ; 
It  knoweth  well  how  weak  such  stay  would  prove. 
But,  resting  on  an  Arm,  strong,  though  unseen, 
And  mindful  of  a  Promise  broken  not, 
It  lifts  pure  hands  unto  the  Mercy-seat, 
And  pleads  for  its  beloved ;  feeling  aye 
The  love  that  prayeth  is  the  nearest  GOD  ! 

The  love  that  keepeth.     Only  GOD  can  keep ; 
And  he  who  keepeth  Israel  doth  not  sleep. 
On  the  wide  world  his  eye,  all-seeing,  rests, 
Marking  the  pulsings  of  our  human  breasts. 
Dust  as  we  are,  'tis  granted  us  to  meet 
JEHOVAH'S  smile ;  and  yet  beneath  his  feet 
A  million  worlds  are  trembling  to  their  doom. 
Dust  as  we  are,  so  dust  unto  the  tomb 
We  daily  give ;  believing  that  our  GOD 
Will  burst  the  fetters  of  the  valley  clod ; 
And,  in  the  hope  that  he  that  dust  will  keep, 
We  leave  our  best  beloved  to  their  sleep. 
And,  folding  meek  hands  on  a  patient  breast, 
We  wait  the  hour  shall  summon  us  to  rest; 
And,  when  it  comes,  GOD  makes  us  down  to  lie, 
In  the  sure  hope  of  Immortality ! 


&  Corn  Eeat 

FADING  !  you  dream !    The  rose  is  on  her  cheek ; 
The  gladness  in  her  eyes  ;  and  in  her  step 
There  is  no  languor.     I  mark  no  decay 
Of  any  one  of  life's  sweet  attributes ; 
And  in  her  voice  the  same  soft  music  dwells 
That  stole  of  old  into  my  heart  of  hearts ; 
And  yet  you  say  "  fading  "  is  written  there ! 
I  see  it  not.    Nay,  more ;  I  will  not  see  it ! 
"  Fading !  "  you  said  it  —  "  fading  "  and  my  love 
Not  yet  hath  compassed  hers !    Look  on  her  now. 
The  sunshine  falling  on  her  shining  hair, 
The  warm  blood  mantling  on  that  smoothest  cheek, 
The  full  lips  quivering,  as  if  her  heart 


172  BOOKS. 

Were  touched  to  sadness  by  the  rhyme  she  reads. 

Is  she  not  beautiful?    And  yet  you  say, 

'•  Fading !  "    I'll  not  believe  it !     She  sees  us, 

And  the  smile  upon  those  sweet  lips  breaking, 

Is  light  unto  my  heart.     Nay ;  cease,  old  friend ; 

I  will  not  hear  that  bitter  word  again. 

Know  thou  I  love  her,  and  one  look  of  hers 

Is  all  the  world  to  me.  .... 

Rejected! 

And  yet  so  gently,  —  with  such  faltering  voice, 
As  if  she  felt  herself  the  pain  she  gave  me. 

0  Imogen !     I  ne'er  loved  thee  half  so  Well 

As  when  you  dashed  all  my  poor  hopes  to  earth 
With  but  one  little  word !     Dear  Imogen ! 

1  marked  her  when  she  spoke  it,  and  her  cheek 
Was  wrhiter  than  the  lilies  at  her  feet. 

"Fading!  "  —  how  the  word  haunts  me,  and  my  love 
May  never  come  between  her  and  the  grave ! 

Dead !  and  the  dust  is  lying  on  her  heart! 

Dead !  and  mine  eyes  shall  never  see  her  more  ! 

Mine  Imogen,  whom  I  loved!     Life  seems  dark, 

And  very  lone  without  her;  yet  I  live. 

May  live,  perchance,  to  number  o'er  long  years 

And  count  them  wasted,  since  bereft  of  her. 

Wasted?  not  so;  for  life  hath  other  needs 

Than  love ;  and  I  may  hope  to  give  some  joy, 

Some  happy  moments  unto  other  hearts. 

My  heart  hath  closed  itself,  as  with  sealed  doors, 

'Gainst  all  sweet  household  joys;  but  in  their  place, 

The  whole  wide  world  hath  leave  to  enter  in ! 


Books. 

I  HAVE  read  much ;  and  some  old  strains,  and  sweet, 
That  made  soft  music  in  the  Long-Ago, 
Lie  nestling  in  my  heart,  as  if  they  knew 
They  were  beloved  of  me.     When  I  am  sad, 
They  bring  me  gladness,  such  as  smiling  Spring 
Bestows  upon  the  pulses  of  the  earth 
Long  chilled  by  Winter's  sharp  and  icy  breath. 
And  when  I  would  be  glad,  they  ring,  as  bells 
Whose  chiming  floating  o'er  the  summer  sea 
Doth  bring  to  some  poor  lonely  mariner 
A  thought  of  home,  and  all  sweet  homely  things. 
Therefore  I  gather  books ;  yea,  garner  them, 


THE    YEARS.  173 

As  Love  doth  keep  the  things  that  were  the  dead's. 

I  knew  not  those  who  wrote  them ;  but  their  souls  — 

A  part,  at  least,  of  that  which  is  their  soul  — 

Do  speak  to  me  from  every  living  page ; 

And  my  soul  answers  back  the  voiceless  words, 

And  thrills  as  unto  music  from  the  grave ! 


gears. 

How  the  years  glide  from  us  when  our  first  youth's  past ! 

They  fleet  away  as  some  wild  dream  of  night 
That  holds  our  spirits  bound  in  fetters  fast, 

But  is  as  nothing;  and  forgotten  quite 
When  earth  lies  fair  and  smiling  in  the  morning  light. 

Time  treadeth  softly,  moveth  very  slow, 
In  life's  sweet  spring-time ;  for  our  childish  feet 

Bound  lightly  where  the  valley- waters  flow ; 

Lightly  as  any  antelope,  and  fleet ; 
Yet  pause,  the  while,  to  gather  every  flower  that  we  meet. 

These  years  pass,  —  lingeringly,  yet  they  pass ; 

And  youth's  keen,  fiery  soul  contemns  the  vale 
That  childhood  found  so  beautiful.     Alas ! 

When  driven  to  and  fro  by  passion's  gale, 
For  that  green  valley  lost,  the  weary  heart  may  wail. 

Steep  is  the  path  youth's  eager  feet  must  tread ; 

And  clouds  lie  thick  upon  the  mountain  brow. 
They  see  no  steepness ;  and  the  clouds  o'erhead 

Are  veiled  by  the  brightness  of  the  glow 
That  from  the  unclouded  sun  of  early  hope  doth  flow. 

High  is  the  hill  whose  weary  steep  we  climb ; 

Yet  often  half  the  rising  way  is  passed 
Ere  we  do  feel  the  toil,  or  count  the  time 

That  we  have  spent  or  wasted;  and,  at  last, 
The  summit  gained,  perchance  a  backward  look  we  cast. 

Is  that  the  path  that  our  poor  feet  did  tread 
But  yesterday?     Or  hath  some  fairy  wand 
Left  its  kind  glamour  there,  that  in  the  stead 

Of  sterile  rocks  that  frowned  on  every  hand, 
We  see  a  glory  lying  dimly  on  the  land  ? 


174  THE    YEARS. 

Ere  yet  we  left  the  vale,  Hope's  magic  glass, 
Held  up  before  our  eyes,  gave  to  the  way 

Its  own  soft  tints  of  rose ;  but  they  did  pass ; 

Or  slowly  change  into  a  motley  gray,  — 
The  sober  hue  experience  wears,  —  so  poets  say. 

But  looking  downward  from  the  summit  gained, 
A  softening  veil  o'er  the  rough  path  is  thrown; 

And  fairer  far  than  all  we  have  attained 

Doth  seem  the  parted  joy,  the  bright  hopes  flown, 
The  olden  faith,  now  dim,  the  time  forever  gone ! 

The  years  that  have  been  passed  full  slowly  by, 

Reluctant,  lingering,  —  as  if  they,  too, 
Toiled  up  the  hill,  and  saw  above,  the  sky 

That  smiled  upon  them  from  its  depths  of  blue ; 
And  knew  that  at  their  feet  were  flowers  and  sweet  dew. 

The  steep  is  won.    For  some  brief  space  we  pause. 

A  retrospective  glance  our  sad  hearts  may 
Give  unto  that  which  has  been,  and  its  cause ; 

Then,  faltering,  take  the  path  that  winds  away 
Towards  the  far-off  regions  of  eternal  day. 

The  path  leads  downward ;  and  the  swift  years  go 
As  doth  a  ball  rolled  slowly  down  the  steep. 

We  give  ourselves  the  impetus,  and  so 

Roll  as  the  ball,  —all  obstacles  o'erleap,  — 
Till  in  the  silence  of  the  Silent  Vale  we  sleep. 

The  path  leads  downward.     This  of  dust  is  said; 

The  dust  that  mingleth  with  the  valley  clod. 
Our  way  it  lieth  where  do  sleep  the  dead ; 

So  we  must  share  their  rest  beneath  the  sod. 
Onward  and  upward  is  the  path  that  leads  to  GOD! 

In  that  path  the  spirit  walketh,  keeping 
Itself  unspotted  by  the  world's  cold  lust; 

Meekly  it  walketh,  watchful,  lest  sleeping, 

It  wake  to  wail  an  overweening  trust ; 
To  find  its  hopes  of  heaven  were  but  builded  on  the  dust. 

Father  in  heaven !     Our  times  are  in  thy  hand ; 

We  are  but  dust  and  ashes  in  thy  sight; 
Yet  in  thy  love  thou  hast  prepared  a  land, 

A  "  better  country  "  for  us ;  where  no  night 
May  enter,  for  thou  art  its  everlasting  light ! 


A   PRAYER.  175 

And  to  that  land,  grant  that  our  footsteps  tend, 
And  that  our  feet  in  the  straight  way  may  be. 

Keep  us,  O  Father !  through  life  unto  life's  end, 
So  every  year  but  bring  us  nearer  thee, 

Till  our  poor  life  hath  blended  with  eternity. 


&  Prager  at  tfje  Institution  of  a  fHmfgter. 

FATHER  in  heaven ! 
Thou  that  hearest,  and  in  thine  own  good  time 

Dost  answer  all  our  prayers ; 
Hear  us,  and  answer  now,  as,  with  clasped  hands 

Hushing  our  own  poor  cares, 
We  kneel  before  thy  glorious  throne, 
And  plead  for  one, 
Who,  with  bowed  knee, 
And  lowlier  heart,  himself  hath  given 
Unto  the  temple-service  and  to  thee ! 

Hear  us,  O  Father ! 
And  bless  our  prayers  indeed 
With  all  fulfilment.     Bless  him,  also, 
For  whom  we  pray.    Grant  that  the  seea 
His  hand  may  scatter  shall  find  goodly  soil, 

To  a  rich,  ripe  harvest  grow, 
Repaying  hundred-fold  the  sower's  toil. 

Grant  him  a  glorious  crown, 
In  that  bright  day,  when,  putting  in  his  hand, 
The  Reaper  gathers  the  full  harvest  in, 
From  the  seed  the  sower  hath  sown. 
Hearts  ransomed  from  the  yoke  of  sin, 
And  souls  led  onward  to  the  Better  Land. 

Hear  us,  O  Father! 
And,  if  it  be  thy  will, 

Grant  him  long  life,  —  the  fulness  of  all  years ; 

Pour  thy  true  sunshine  on  his  pathway  still 

And  with  thy  loving  hand  stanch  all  his  tears. 

Or,  —  if  this  may  not  be,  — 
If  our  poor  prayers  may  have  no  power  to  bless ; 

If  pain  and  weariness, 
And  broken  hopes,  his  sad  allotment  be; 
Then  grant  that  he  may  see 
Only  thy  love  in  all  ; 

And,  burying  each  grief  beneath  its  own  dark  pall, 
May  look  beyoiid  to  thee ; 


176  1858. 

Content  with  knowing  this,  — 
Enough  for  him  of  bliss,  — 

That  thy  smile  is  not  growing  dim ; 

That  thou,  his  GOD,  hast  not  forsaken  him ! 

O  GOD  !     Our  Father ! 
Look  down  upon  him  now,  and,  in  thy  love, 

Make  smooth  his  onward  way ; 
And  with  thy  strong  and  tender  hand  remove 

All  shadows  from  his  day  ; 
That  in  the  broad,  clear  light, 
As  righteous  in  thy  sight, 
His  walk  on  earth  may  be. 

So  thus, 
That  we  who  follow  where  he  leadeth  us, 

May,  treading  the  same  path, 
Be  found  accepted  in  the  day  of  wrath. 
So,  when  thou  countest  up,  as  in  that  day, 
Thy  jewels,  both  himself,  and  we, 
And  all  who  neath  his  ministry 
Shall  hear  the  Word  of  Life,  and  learn  its  way, 
May  be  of  that  bright  band 
Who  stand  at  thy  right  hand : 
Redeemed  from  the  world,  to  share  with  thee 

The  unfading  glories  of  Eternity  ! 
Dec.  8, 1858. 


1858, 

COLD  on  his  bier  a  crowned  king  is  lying ; 
"  About  his  couch  doth  go  " 
The  soft  white  flakes  of  snow, 
And,  o'er  his  quiet  heart,  and  pale,  cold  brow,  — 

So  painless  now,  — 
Wildly  the  winter  wind  is  flying. 

He  sleeps,  not  royally ;  but  as  the  dead 

Who  have  no  dreams,  and  know  no  waking; 

And,  as  he  sleeps,  the  crown  falls  from  his  head ; 

And,  from  the  nerveless  hand, 
The  idle  sceptre,  that  chill  grasp  forsaking; 

Falls  broken  to  the  ground. 
And  far  and  wide,  through  all  the  land, 

Doth  go  a  mournful  sound; 
A  wildly  wailing,  momentary  knell,  — 
A  passing  bell ! 


1858.  177 

Lone  on  his  bier  the  poor  old  king  is  lying; 

The  courtiers  all  have  fled. 

Little  they  cared  for  the  dying, 

But  less  they  care  for  the  dead. 

So  alone  the  old  king  lieth, 

Alone  upon  his  bier; 
And  the  midnight  hour  flieth, 
But  there  are  no  watchers  near. 
No  watchers  ?    Yet  soft  in  the  starlight, 

Pale,  dusky  phantoms  glide, 
And  with  soundless  footsteps,  as  of  night, 

They  gather  on  every  side. 
No  watchers?    Yet  thoughts  most  tender  and  true 

Linger  lovingly  round  that  bier; 
And  memories,  sweeter  than  morning  dew, 

Rest  on  it,  like  dew  most  clear. 
No  watchers  beside  that  forsaken  bier? 
When  the  thoughts  that  around  it  cling 
Are  as  many  as  sands  on  the  widest  mere, 
Are  various  as  flowers  in  spring ! 

What  shape  have  the  shadows  that  gather  there  ? 

They  come  from  each  home  of  earth,  — 
The  beloved  who  seemed  to  us  most  fair, 
The  light  of  our  quiet  hearth, 
The  father,  or  mother, 
The  sister,  or  brother, 
Who  have  passed  away  from  earth ! 
And  that  crownless  king,  as  he  lieth  there,  — 
The  snow-flakes  falling  on  his  hair,  — 
Worketh  strange  glamourye 
In  human  heart  and  soul ; 
Till,  standing  by  that  solemn  bier, 
As  by  an  altar  to  the  Past,  we  see 
The  shapes  that  have  been  and  are  not  arise 

And  pass  before  our  eyes ; 
Fading  in  the  dusk  beyond  the  goal ; 

That  goal,  the  grave,  so  near. 
We  see  them  once  again,  —  the  fair,  the  loved, 

Who  iu  the  old  time  proved 
As  sunshine  to  our  hearts,  and  made  them  glad. 

We  know  they  may  not  come 
To  cheer  us  now ;  yet  we  are  rarely  sad, 
Tor  GOD  hath  called  them  home ! 

What  thoughts  are  lingering  where  that  pale  king 

Lieth  cold  upon  his  bier? 

The  fruits  of  an  autumn,  or  summer,  or  spring, 
12 


178  UIT  IS  NOT  LONG    TILL  MORNING." 

Are  gathered  and  garnered  here. 
But  many  a  seed  that  our  hands  have  sown 

Was  blighted,  or  dead,  or  lost; 
And  some,  that  unto  the  harvest  had  grown, 

Were  killed  by  an  early  frost. 
And  the  few  we  bring  to  that  old  king's  bier. 

As  a  tithe  that  we  offer  him, 
Are  all  we  could  save  from  the  autumn  sere, 

And  their  glory  is  passing  dim. 
Yet  we  make  us  wreaths  of  these  perishing  things, 

These  fading  fruits  and  flowers; 
And  Memory  o'er  them  its  glamour  flings, 

And  \ve  fancy  their  beauty  ours. 
But  a  little  time,  and  these  thoughts  shall  flee 

Into  silence,  when  the  heart  grows  cold ; 
And  it  matters  not  what  their  tale  may  be 

When  the  graves  of  each  life  are  told ! 

Cold  on  his  bier  the  dead  king  lieth. 

'Tis  the  mid-hour  of  the  night; 
And  the  by-gone  time,  with  its  shadows,  dieth 

Out  in  the  morning  light. 
So  we  bury  our  dead  from  out  our  sight, 

All  under  the  white,  white  snow ; 
And  we  turn  to  greet,  in  the  morning  light, 

A  shape  that  we  do  not  know. 
As  we  leave  the  grave  by  the  frozen  rills, 

Forgetful  of  moan  or  tear; 
With  a  stately  step,  o'er  the  wintry  hills, 

Paceth  the  coming  year. 


£t  is  not  iloncf  till  ffltorning. 

UNDER  the  shadow  of  a  time-worn  bridge 

A  woman  sat,  cowering.     At  her  feet, 
Through  the  dark  arches  of  that  fretted  ridge, 

A  mighty  stream  was  flowing  far  and  fleet. 
Little  that  silent  watcher  heeded  aught 

That  passed  around  her.    On  her  patient  breast 

A  child  was  lying  in  its  dreamless  rest ; 
And  through  her  lips  broke  words  her  life  had  taught, 
-     "  It  is  not  long  till  morning." 

In  that  meek  trust  she  waited.    Yet  earth's  morn 
Brought  nothing  unto  her  save  warmth  and  light. 

Yet  was  this  much  for  one  to  whom  the  scorn 
Of  the  hard  world  was  clinging  like  a  blight. 


".ZT  IS   NOT  LONG    TILL   MORNING."  179 

For  she  had  fallen ;  yet  not  hers  the  shame. 

Lower  in  the  slime  she  would  not  sink; 

And,  evermore,  while  sitting  on  the  brink 
Of  that  cold  wave,  she  murmured  o'er  the  same,  — 
"  It  is  not  long  till  morning." 

It  may  be  she  had  thought  how  still  and  deep 
The  unseen  depths  of  that  dark  stream  must  be ; 

And  dreamed  they  might  her  bitter  secret  keep, 
In  their  cold  silence,  everlastingly. 

But  if  these  things  had  been  they  were  not  now. 
Some  chance  words  uttered  by  a  loving  heart 
Had  given  her  strength  to  play  her  weary  part 

On  life's  dull  stage.     A  hope  lights  up  her  brow,  — 
"  It  is  not  long  till  morning." 

"  It  is  not  long  till  morning."    Few  the  words. 

Her  heart  was  burning  with  the  bitter  wrong; 
Her  soul  on  fire,  when,  striking  on  their  chords, 

Came  that  sweet  refrain  of  a  maiden's  song. 
It  quenched  the  fever;  prayers  learned  long  ago 

Broke  from  her  lips  ;  the  story  read  of  yore",  — 

Of  Christ's  sweet  charit}7",  "  Go,  sin  no  more  "  — 
Was  heard  again  in  that  soft  music's  flow. 

"  It  is  not  long  till  morning." 

Patient  and  meek,  this  woman;  yet  her  lot 

Could  scarcely  be  more  dark  and  desolate. 
By  all  the  world  forsaken  and  forgot; 

And  yet  submissive  to  her  cruel  fate. 
Repining  not,  because  of  deadly  sin 

For  which  she  suffered ;  and  content  to  bear 

Her  heavy  burden  and  yet  not  despair ; 
Her  sad  voice  breathing  through  the  city's  din, 
"It  is  not  long  till  morning." 

Patient  and  meek  this  woman.     What  are  we 
That  from  the  burthen  of  our  light  despair 

Our  hearts  should  turn;  and  moan  so  bitterly 
O'er  clouds  that  gloom  the  skies  but  now  so  fair? 

Beside  that  woman  let  our  footsteps  pause, 
And  hear  her  wan  and  sickly  lips  repeat 
The  words  that  for  our  own  had  been  more  meet, 

For  her  despair  had  had  most  bitter  cause,  — 

"  It  is  not  long  till  morning." 

How  wide  the  gulf  between  her  lot  and  ours ! 
Yet  we,  poor  erring  children  of  the  dust, 


180  THE   FLOWER   AND   DREAM. 

Because  our  footsteps  are  not  all  on  flowers, 
Murmur,  and  dare  to  say  "Goo  is  not  just; 

And  with  rebellious  spirit  tread  the  way 

That  broad  and  long  but  leadeth  down  to  hell; 
Nor  turn  aside ;  but  let  our  future  tell 

Its  own  dark  tale,  nor  with  that  woman  say, 

"  It  is  not  long  till  morning." 

Or  else  we  boast,  as  did  the  Pharisee, 
That  we  are  not  like  this  frail  child  of  clay, 

That  no  stain  lieth  on  our  purity; 

And  with  a  haughty  head,  pass  on  our  way. 

But  in  the  trial  of  the  Judgment-Day, 

This  woman  meek,  though  erring,  whom  our  pride 
Would  crush  to  earth,  shall  be  found  justified 

Bather  than  we.     She,  sinful,  weak,  did  say, 

"  It  is  not  long  till  morning." 

&jje  jFiofoer  anti  Bream. 

I  WATCHED,  once,  a  flower  from  its  birth. 

My  hand  had  giv'n  the  little  shining  seed 
Unto  the  silent  keeping  of  the  earth ; 

And,  day  by  clay,  I  waited  for  the  meed 
They  told  me  would  be  mine.     One  quiet  eve 

I  saw,  just  peeping  through  the  dark  brown  earth, 
Two  tiny  leaves.     I  scarcely  could  believe 

Such  little  things  would  to  my  flower  give  birth. 

Daily  I  watched  it ;  and  through  gentle  rain, 

Sweet  sunshine,  and  soft  dews,  the  small  plant  grew. 
Some  brief  days  I  was  absent ;  when  again 

I  looked  upon  the  plant  I  scarcely  knew 
If  it  could  be  the  same ;  so  sweet,  so  fair ; 

Flush  with  the  glory  of  its  crimson  flowers. 
Thoughtless,  I  gathered  all ;  their  bloom  to  bear, 

A  gift,  unto  a  loving  friend  of  ours. 

They  died !  —  what  more  ?    Nay,  nothing  but  a  thought 

Of  one  bright  dream  they  shadowed.    In  my  heart 
I  raised  a  golden  palace ;  and  I  wrought 

Rare  work  of  carving,  sweet  device  of  art, 
To  deck  its  fairy  chambers.     One  clear  breath 

Of  truth  revealed  its  emptiness,  and  it  fell ; 
But  with  me  lingers  still  its  moan  of  death ; 

And  through  my  life  sounds  evermore  its  knell. 


FOREBODINGS.  181 


"  JHafee  n0  long  Eartging,  ©  tng  -@0t» ! "  —  $a.  xl  21. 

BEHOLD  !  the  shadows  lengthen,  and  the  evening  comes ! 

Yet  to  my  soul  it  will  not  bring  the  night. 
Twilight  is  stealing  over  many  happy  homes  ; 

And  some  sweet  eyes  are  smiling —  smiling  bright 
Greeting  to  loving  meeting,  but  to  part  at  morn. 

Unto  such  meeting  oft  my  feet  have  trod ; 
But  now  they  linger  sadly,  yet  not  far  the  bourn. 
"  Make  no  long  tarrying,  O  my  GOD  !  " 

Behold !  the  shadows  lengthen !     I  have  lived  my  life ; 

A  life  not  all  unhappy ;  and  I  go, 
Beyond  the  restless  murmur  of  yon  city's  strife, 

Where  I  shall  hear  no  more  its  river  flow. 
Long  since,  Peace  folded  gently  o'er  my  weary  heart, 

A  scroll  caught  up  where  many  feet  had  trod. 
I  hear  its  echo  round  me  now  when  I  depart,  — 
"  Make  no  long  tarrying,  O  my  GOD!  " 


A  DAY  of  spring-time !     Soft  and  warm,  the  air 

Doth  kiss  my  lifted  brow ;  and  in  its  breath 
There  is  a  spell  that  could  withstand  despair, 

And  quench  the  fever  that  betrayeth  death. 
Life,  fresh  and  full  of  vigor,  seems  to  start 

Anew  into  existence,  when  I  feel 
Such  balmy  breezes ;  and  my  beating  heart 

Throbs  gladly  as  the  sun-rays  o'er  it  steal. 

A  day  of  spring,  —  of  sunshine  rare  and  sweet,  — 

Bathing  my  temples  in  its  hazy  glow ; 
And  life  springs  up  exultant,  as  to  greet 

The  glorious  day ;  and  yet  —  all  sure  and  slow  — 
Its  pulses  beat  a  death-march,  soon  to  cease. 

Yet  none  the  less  doth  the  poor  heart  rejoice 
In  present  bliss,  for  that  it  heareth  "  peace ! " 

In  the  low  cadence  of  an  inward  voice. 

Be  still,  sad  voice !    I  will  not  hear  thee  now, 
But  bask  in  this  sweet  sunshine,  as  if  doom 

Were  not  a  word  of  earth,  nor  on  my  brow 
Long  written.    All  the  year  is  in  its  bloom ; 


182  FOREBODINGS. 

And  I,  too,  will  be  glad  and  blithe,  and  give 
My  soul  up  to  bright  dreaming;  and  be  free 

To  think  how  glorious  a  thing  to  live ; 
Not  counted  with  the  "  have  been,"  but  "  to  be." 

Be  still,  sad  voice !     What !  must  thy  murmur  rise 

To  darken  o'er  my  gladness  evermore  ? 
Behold  the  glory  of  the  soft  blue  skies ; 

The  warm  light  resting  on  the  wave  and  shore ; 
See  quickening  life  in  every  swelling  bud, 

And  hear  the  ripple  as  the  stream  glides  by. 
Clear  through  my  veins  doth  bound  the  living  blood, 

And  yet,  thou  echoest  through  all,  "  to  .die." 

And  must  it  be  ?    O'er  this  quick  pulse  of  mine 

Must  silence,  as  a  mighty  river  flow? 
And  laughter,  and  sweet  song,  and  gay  sunshine, 

Bring  never  to  my  heart  the  old-time  glow? 
Yet  I  have  lived  a  fuller  life  than  most ; 

If  I  have  suffered,  I  have  joyed  as  well ; 
And  from  my  past  there  riseth  no  pale  ghost 

Of  bitter  wrong,  or  secret  sin,  to  tell. 

I  am  so  happy !     Full  the  cup  and  sweet 

That  stands  before  me ;  yea,  full  to  the  brim ! 
But  ever,  as  the  passing  hours  fleet, 

I  see  more  clearly,  resting  on  the  rim, 
One  bitter  drop,  that,  falling  in,  would  break 

The  cup  as  it  were  Venice  glass.     A  breath 
Might  make  it  fall.    No  after  care  we  take 

Would  aught  avail.    The  bitter  drop  is  death ! 

Yet  only  bitter  for  that  life  is  sweet. 

It  ever  seemeth  hard,  when  life  doth  wear 
The  golden  crown,  and  royal  sceptre,  meet 

For  its  full  glory,  that  pale  Death  should  bear 
Us  down  to  silence  from  the  light  of  day. 

Yet  let  us  think  Whose  Hand  doth  lay  us  low, 
Whose  Love  will  yet  redeem  us  from  the  clay, 

And  calmly  meet  the  seeming  cruel  blow. 

Brightly  the  sun  shines  on  our  pleasant  way, 

Softly  life's  river  floweth  to  the  sea ; 
Our  future  dawneth  as  a  summer  day, 

And  robed  in  glory  seems  the  long  To  Be. 
But  what  are  we,  that  we  should  question  aught 

The  Holiest  may  do?     Our  race  is  run. 
Enough  to  know  our  work  hath  all  been  wrought; 

And  for  the  rest,  GOD'S  holy  will  be  done ! 


TRUST.  183 


&  Picture  for  tng 

I  SAW  a  picture,  once ; 

A  woman's  face,  — no  more.     A  white,  white  face, 
That  from  the  shadow  of  the  thick  dark  hair, 
Gleamed  out  —  a  tomb-stone  in  the  dusk  of  night. 
A  brow  nor  high,  nor  low.     A  mouth  most  sweet, 
But,  as  you  longer  gazed,  a  gathering  sense 
Of  hidden  pain  came  stealing  to  your  heart ; 
Until  you  thought  you  saw  those  full  red  lips 
Quivering  to  agony,  whose  bitter  sting 
Not  yet  had  been  crushed  out.     And  in  the  eyes, 
That  seemed  evermore  to  meet  your  own, 
A  still,  grand  patience  dwelt ;  a  godlike  strength, 
If  not  to  conquer,  calmly  to  endure. 
'Twas  but  a  pictured  face.     It  had  no  name. 
No  story,  half-remembered,  linked  itself 
Unto  that  shadow.     None  knew  whence  it  came, 
Or  cared  to  know.     The  years  had  come  and  gone ; 
Found  it,  and  left  it  there !     The  house  was  old ; 
And  they  who  dwelt  therein  were  simple  folk, 
Honest  and  true,  but  with  more  heart  than  soul. 
They  did  not  like  the  picture.     In  their  eyes 
There  was  no  meaning  in  it.     O'er  their  lives, 
So  calm,  serene,  no  feeling  like  a  flood, 
Had  swept  destroyingly.     No  conquered  pain 
Had  set  upon  their  smoothest  brows  and  lips 
The  signet  of  endurance ;  and  no  chord, 
In  their  rough  hearts  vibrating,  thrilled  response 
Unto  the  meaning  of  those  patient  eyes, 
So  womanly,  —  so  sad ! 


TRUST,  O  heart !  for  doubt  is  deadly ; 

All  its  growth  is  bitterness ; 
And  its  poison,  slow  distilling, 

Takes  from  joy  the  power  to  bless. 
Dark  and  deadly,  sure  and  slowly, 

With  life's  purest  streams  it  blends, 
Till  the  crystal  waters  darken, 

Till  each  stream  in  ocean  ends. 

Trust,  O  heart !  for  doubt  is  torture, 
Overpassing  other  pain ; 


184  "  SHOW  ME    THY   WAY,    O   LORD!" 

As  a  poisoned  arrow  hanging 
To  the  heart  it  clove  in  twain. 

Every  thrill  is  added  anguish, 
Every  motion  racketh  thee ; 

Till  thy  very  breath  is  laden 
With  iuteusest  agony. 

Trust,  0  heart !  for  doubt  doth  madden 

More  than  any  other  pain ; 
Till  the  fevered  pulses  triumph 

O'er  a  wild  and  fevered  brain  ; 
Burning  out,  like  to  a  lire, 

All  the  chambers  of  the  soul ; 
Leaving  but  the  blackened  ruin 

Over  which  the  smoke-clouds  roll. 

Trust,  O  heart !  and  thou  shalt  gather 

Flowers,  where  doubt  flndeth  weeds ; 
Thou  shalt  bring  home  a  rich  harvest 

While  doubt  soweth  worthless  seeds. 
Trust,  and  though  the  desert  widen 

With  its  trackless  wastes  of  sand, 
Pastures  green,  and  quiet  waters, 

Wait  thee  in  a  Better  Land. 

Trust,  O  heart !    The  life  before  thee 

May  have  sorrow  dark  and  deep ; 
But  we  know  strength  will  be  given,  — 

He  that  keepeth  doth  not  sleep. 
In  his  arms  he  takes  his  children, 

Bears  them  on  his  mighty  breast 
Into  Heaven.     So  our  Father 

Giveth  his  beloved  rest. 


me  tjjg  Wag,  ©  Hot* ! " 

SHOW  me  thy  way,  O  Lord !    Make  clear  the  night 
Wherein  mine  erring  footsteps  blindly  stray; 

Mine  eyes  are  dim ;  I  cannot  see  aright,' 
And  far  I  wander  from  thy  holy  way. 

I  am  so  weak.    I  have  no  strength  to  keep 
The  straight  and  narrow  path ;  but  turn  aside, 

And  daily,  hourly ;  for  that  I  may  sleep, 
For  pleasant  toys,  for  weariness,  for  pride. 


"AN  APRIL  DAY"  185 

Vainly  the  boon  of  liberty  I  seek ; 

I  cannot  break  the  bonds  that  fetter  me. 
Strive  as  I  may,  my  spirit  is  too  weak, 

And  all  mine  efforts  are  as  vanity. 

I  know  that  I  am  nothing  without  thee ; 

That  blindly  evermore  my  feet  would  stray 
But  that  with  gentlest  Hand  thou  guidest  me 

Within  the  circle  of  thy  Love  alway. 

Keep  me,  O  Father !  from  the  snares  of  sin ; 

Bow  thou  my  spirit  to  thy  gentle  sway, 
That  so  my  footsteps  may  not  enter  in 

The  path  of  death,  but  choose  thy  perfect  way. 

Show  me  that  way,  O  Lord !    Make  clear  the  right 
Wherein  I  wander  blindly.    Grant  me  grace ; 

That  I  may  walk,  not  darkly,  but  in  light, 
Through  all  the  changes  of  mine  earthly  race. 


"  &tt  8prtl 

AN  April  day !    Nay,  you  do  laugh  at  me, 
In  saying  so.     Methinks  this  breeze,  so  rude, 
Hath  caught  the  music  of  that  roaring  glee 
From  some  rough  air  of  March's  brotherhood. 
No  low,  sweet  strain,  befitting  April's  mood, 
Is  that,  which  sweeping  past  us  mockingly 
Doth  seem  to  shout,  "  Where  are  your  quiet  days 
Of  sunshine  soft  and  warm?     Where  the  bright  rays 
In  which  your  spirit  basked  rejoicingly? 
One  breath  of  mine  hath  scattered  all  your  dreaming, 
And  rolled  thick  clouds  between  you  and  the  sun." 
With  such  sharp  words  the  wind's  rude  blast  is  teeming, 
Nor  uttered  half  ere  its  swift  race  is  run. 
An  inner  voice  replieth  unto  him  : 
"  Truly  the  sunshine  waneth,  and  is  dim, 
And  clouds  do  shadow  all  the  pleasant  sky, 
But  only  for  a  season.     Light  is  shining 
Beyond  the  cloud-land  as  a  silver  lining, 
And  the  veiled  sun  will  smile  out  by  and  by." 

An  April  day !  yet  by  the  fire  I  sit  » 

Indulging  in  a  moralizing  fit; 
The  subject  clouds  and  sunshine ;  yet  no  day 


186  "^V  APRIL   DAY.1 

Is  this  of  April.    No  sweet  changes  play 

Across  the  aspect  of  the  sombre  skies; 

And  from  the  troubled  waters  moanings  rise ; 

No  gentle  ripple  o'er  their  surface  flies; 

For  the  rude  wind  strikes  hard  the  river's  breast, 

And  wakes  its  current  from  its  seeming  rest, 

Till  white  caps  dance  upon  each  curling  wave 

A  measure,  suited  to  the  frolic  stave 

Of  the  wind's  piping;  neither  sad  nor  slow; 

And  true  time  keeping,  swift  the  waters  flow. 

An  April  day !     I  think  March  had  some  clays 
It  borrowed  from  sweet  April.     Now  it  pays 
Them  back  with  usury.     Would  that  the  debt 
Had  been  forgotten  utterly !  and  yet 
'Tis  better  as  it  is.     We  know  not  all 
The  worth  of  what  we  have,  until  the  pall 
Hath  shut  it  from  our  vainly  longing  sight 
As  with  the  blackness  of  a  starless  night. 
Our  eyes  are  darkened,  and  we  do  not  see 
How  full  of  blessings  our  life-cup  may  be ; 
Till  our  poor  hands,  too  hasty,  not  too  slow, 
Do  make  the  sparkling  treasure  overflow. 
The  dry  dust  drinks  it  up,  and  we  have  lost 
That  we  soon  learn  to  prize  and  value  most. 

"  What !  moralizing  yet  ?  "  — 

Ay ;  even  so. 

My  fancy  trips  on  no  "  fantastic  toe." 
No  April  garb  is  hers,  but  sober  gray; 
And  slow  she  paces  on  her  quiet  way. 
Nor  April  mood  hath  she,  save  for  swift  tears 
That  leave  their  impress  upon  all  the  years, 
Making  the  gray  more  gray.     But  I,  apart 
From  this  same  Fancy,  am  of  other  heart ; 
Not  over  sad,  nor  changeful  much  of  mood; 
But  like  the  rest  of  my  still  sisterhood ; 
Or  like  a  child  that  pleased  is  with  slight  things, 
While  slighter  yet  may  have  some  sharpest  stings. 
A  word,  a  look,  hath  aye  the  power  to  bless 
And  till  my  quiet  heart  with  cheerfulness. 
The  shadow  of  a  tone  may  darken  day, 
And  shut  the  sunshine  from  my  lonely  way. 
The  iirst  I  treasure  as  a  holy  thing, 
And  keep  it  in  my  heart,  and  crown  it  king 
Of  its  peculiar  time ;  and  so  to  be 
Held  ever  sacred  in  my  memory. 
The  last  may  torture  for  a  little  while,  — 


TO  s — .  187 

May  rob  my  heart  of  light,  my  lip  of  smile, 

But  I  am  patient.     In  my  little  hand 

I  shut  the  shadow,  that  would  else  expand 

And  darken  all  my  life ;  and  so  it  dies  ; 

A  painless  shadow  in  my  hand  it  lies. 

Above  its  grave,  a  quiet  rain  of  tears 

May  fall  as  Lethe.    In  the  coming  years, 

No  pallid  ghost  from  that  still  grave  shall  rise,  — 

No  after-shadow  on  my  pathway  lie  ! 

Once  in  its  grave,  it  hath  no  more  To  Be. 

Tis  but  a  wind-breath  that  o'er  water  flies,  — 

A  cloud-wreath  sweeping  through  a  summer  sky. 

I  give  it  not  a  place  in  memory. 


CLING  to  thy  home  I    It  hath  sheltered  thee 

In  the  old  daysy  long  and  sweet ; 
When  'neath  the  old  rafters  echoed  free 

The  patter  of  little  feet. 
Eough  and  rude  are  the  chambers  old, 

But  they  seemed  not  so  to  thoe ; 
And  the  wainscot  low,  with  its  stains  of  mould, 

Hath  its  place  in  memory. 

Cling  to  thy  home !    For  the  world,  though  wide, 

Hath  not  in  its  weary  round 
A  joy  more  sweet,  or  holier  pride 

Than  may  in  thy  home  be  found. 
For  the  gentle  clasp  of  a  loving  hand 

In  the  light  of  loving  eyes, 
Is  more  to  the  heart  than  the'fairest  land 

That  lieth  'ueath  sunny  skies. 

Cling  to  thy  home ;  while  it  yet  is  thine, 

And  love  the  dear  ones  there. 
Who  knoweth  how  long  the  sun  may  shine, 

Or  the  sky  be  bright  and  fair? 
Honor  thy  father !     His'hairs  are  white, 

And  his  step  is  faint  and  slow. 
Make  thou  the  burthen  he  beareth,  light, 

And  smooth  the  way  he  must  go. 

Love  thou  thy  mother !  Let  no  one  take 
Her  place  in  thy  heart's  best  love ; 

And  cling  to  thy  home  for  her  dear  sake, 
Nor  far  from  its  shelter  rove. 


188  DA  Y-DREA  MS. 

Wander  away  —  and  a  day  shall  come, 

—  Oh !  far  may  it  be  from  thee  !  — 
When  her  loving  lips  shall  be  cold  and  dumb 

To  thy  wail  of  agony ! 

Cling  to  thy  home !  and  for  evermore 

Pray  GOD  to  make  it  thine ; 
And  keep  thee  pure,  lest  its  gate  before 

A  flaming  sword  should  shine ; 
And  thou  be  shut  out,  as  Adam  and  Eve, 

From  thy  childhood's  Paradise ; 
Through  all  thine  after-life  doomed  to  grieve 

The  lost  love  in  thy  mother's  eyes. 

Cling  to  thy  home !     It  hath  all  in  all 

That  this  poor  earth  giveth  thee ; 
Though  the  years  may  come  when  its  flowers  shall  fall, 

Yet  they  leave  thee  memory ; 
Sweet  thoughts  of  departed  love  to  keep 

The  valley  of  silence  green ; 
And  a  tender  faith,  that,  most  strong  and  deep, 

Is  a  rock  whereon  to  lean. 


I  DREAM,  and  bright  the  land,  and  very  fair 
Wherein  my  spirit  enters.     No  despair. 

A  cloud  athwart  the  sunny  sky  is  glooming ; 

No  desolate  hope,  its  weary  self  entombing, 
Breaks  up  the  sod  that  green  is  evermore. 

No  heart  that  moaneth  o'er  its  bitter  pain, 

No  soul  that  wanders  lost  upon  life's  main, 
May  see  the  glory  of  that  pleasant  shore, 
Or  linger  in  the  light  that  falls  its  valleys  o'er. 

I  dream.     O'er  far  and  shadowy  hills 

The  morning  steps  with  light  and  rosy  feet, 

Soundless ;  and  yet  they  wake  the  forest  rills 
To  utter  their  soft  music,  so  to  greet 

The  golden-tressed  herald  of  the  sun ! 
Unto  my  brow,  the  breezes,  cool  and  sweet, 
Come  softly.     From  the  distance,  far  yet  fleet, 

All  murmurous  sounds  of  day  not  yet  begun 
Are  stealing  to  mine  ears ;  and,  in  my  heart, 
Some  throbbing  pulses  take  their  fitting  part 

In  Nature's  song  of  praise ;  and,  with  it,  rise 

Into  communion  with  yon  glorious  skies. 


DA  Y-D  REAMS.  189 

I  dream.    And  noon  is  lying,  like  a  dream,      . 
Upon  the  bosom  of  the  quiet  stream,  — 

A  stream  whereon  no  warring  nations  glide. 
And  in  the  blaze  of  sunshine  clear  and  bright 
The  world  is  bathed  as  in  wide  waves  of  light,  — 

Wide  waves  that  seem  to  have  no  ebb  of  tide. 
Deep  calm  is  breathing  from  the  soft,  warm  breath 

Of  the  sweet  South;  faint  with  the  rich  perfume 

Caught  up  from  every  valley's  wealth  of  bloom ; 
But  laden  never  with  the  curse  of  Death. 

No  dew-drops  sparkle  on  the  open  flower; 
But  flowers  and  leaves  distill  a  fragrant  balm. 

The  day  is  at  the  zenith  of  its  power, 
And  over  all  things  broods  a  slumberous  calm. 

I  dream.    The  eve  is  fading  in  the  west; 

Its  purple  light  falls  soft  oil  every  vale ; 
Its  golden  glow  yet  lingers  on  the  crest 

Of  eastern  hills  ;  the  dusk  is  in  each  dale; 
And  through  the  woodland,  sighing,  steals  the  wind 

That  beareth  coolness  on  its  passing  wings. 
The  light  slow  fadeth ;  following  behind 

The  shadows  creep.     Murmurs  of  bubbling  springs 
Do  fill  the  air  as  with  a  voice  of  June ; 
And  in  the  eastern  sky  doth  float  the  full-orbed  moon. 

I  dream.    The  stars  are  shining,  and  their  light, 
So  pure  and  holy  in  our  human  sight, 

Falls  shadowy  on  the  earth,  as  if  a  veil 
Were  drawn  between  their  glory  and  our  eyes, 
Like  that  of  flesh,  which  bars  us  from  the  skies. 

The  stars  are  shining;  but  their  glories  pale 
Before  the  dawning  of  the  coming  day ; 

And  as  I  look  upon  them,  in  my  soul 
There  dawns  a  vision,  clear,  yet  far  away. 

A  vision  of  the  time,  when,  as  a  scroll, 
The  earth  shall  shrivel ;  when  our  GOD  shall  take 

Unto  himself  his  own,  and  gather  in 
The  souls  his  love  redeemed  from  their  sin, 
Counting  them  his  jewels ;  when  he  shall  make 

New  Heavens  and  Earth.  — 

I  dream ;  but  I  awake 
My  hands  lie  folded  on  my  weary  breast ; 

My  heart  is  throbbing  as  it  fain  would  break 
Its  bonds,  and  be  for  evermore  at  rest; 

And  the  poor  soul  is  struggling  to  be  free. 

Be  still !    Live  out  the  life  that  waiteth  thee : 


190  "IN  C(ELO    QUIES." 

And  do  thy  work,  O  Soul !  as  if  each  day 
Brought  never  morrow  to  thine  earthly  way. 
The  passing  hour  reveals  the  hidden  sword  ; 
Work,  and  be  patient,  waiting  on  the  Lord ! 


"En 

ART  weary,  heart  ?    Tis  all  too  soon 

To  lay  thy  heavy  burden  down ; 
Thy  day  hath  not  yet  reached  its  noon; 

Thy  summer  weareth  still  her  crown. 
What  if  the  path  be  steep  and  lone, 

And  stained  by  thy  bleeding  feet? 
As  herald  of  thy  journey  done, 

There  soundeth  forth  a  promise  sweet, 
"  In  ccelo  quies." 

Lift  up  thy  burden ;  lift  it  high, 

As  if  it  were  life's  helmet-crest ; 
Nor  murmur  that  no  help  seems  nigh, 

That  time  stays  not  to  give  thee  rest. 
Behold  !  within  thy  heart  there  lies 

A  little  seed  that  GOD  hath  sown ; 
A  germ  to  ripen  for  the  skies. 

Heart,  o'er  thy  burden  do  not  moan ; 
"  In  ccelo  quies." 

What !  still  repining  ?    Think,  0  heart ! 

Of  all  this  life  of  ours  may  bring, 
Until  thy  burden  seem,  apart 

From  darker  griefs,  a  little  thing ; 
Until,  compared  with  other  woe, 

Thy  grief  shall  wear  a  friendly  guise ; 
And  from  the  load  thou  bearest,  lo ! 

A  murmur  soft  and  sweet  replies, 
"In  ccelo  qiries." 

Lift  up  thy  brow ;  and  to  the  skies, 

That  seem  to  frown  above  thee  yet, 
Turn  thou  the  gaze  of  fearless  eyes, 

That  with  no  coward  tears  are  wet, 
And  bear  thy  burden  patiently. 

Fall  not  thy  feet  upon  the  moss  ? 
Grows  not  thy  burden  light  to  thee? 

Shines  not  the  crown  above  the  cross? 
"  In  ccelo  quies." 


N.   F.   M.  191 


Qlfy  ©torn 

THE  olden  time !  As  in  a  dream, 
I  see  the  broad,  deep  river  gleam 

Beside  my  childhood's  home ; 
And,  broad  as  is  that  ancient  stream, 

The  waves  of  memory  come. 

A  child,  with  the  cool  waves  I  played ; 
A  maiden,  by  its  shores  I  strayed, 

And  wove  me  golden  dreams. 
So,  through  life's  sunshine,  through  life's  shade, 

The  broad,  deep  river  gleams. 

The  olden  time !     O  time  most  sweet, 
That  heard  the  bound  of  little  feet, 

The  laughter  of  the  heart ! 
How  could  your  sunshine  fade  and  fleet? 

How  could  your  mirth  depart? 

The  olden  time !    It  seemeth  rare, 
For  that  it  had  nor  grief  nor  care ; 

And  ofcen  our  poor  eyes 
Look  yearning  to  the  land  so  fair, 

That  far  behind  us  lies. 

Could  we  regain  that  far-off  shore, 
And  tread  its  golden  sands  once  more, 

The  olden  time  would  die ; 
An  airy  fabric,  fashioned  by 


&.  j.  m. 

'•Young,   Loving,   and  Beloved." 

"  YOUNG,  loving,  and  beloved !  "    What  more? 
The  wave  that  falls  on  yonder  shore 

Hath  swept  above  his  grave. 
Down  where  the  billows  lie  like  lead, 
Pale  Death  has  pillowed  his  fair  head, 

Down  in  some  ocean-cave ; 

And,  far  away  upon  the  earth, 
There  sitteth  by  a  quiet  hearth 


192  WAIT  I 

Some  one  who  waiteth  him ; 
Upon  whose  heart,  through  all  the  years, 
The  burden  of  unanswered  fears 

Hath  left  its  shadow  dim. 

A  mother,  watching,  sad  and  bent, 
As  the  slow  years  they  came  and  went, 

And  brought  him  never  yet. 
The  thought  of  him  long  since  hath  gone 
From  every  memory  save  her  own; 

But  she  cannot  forget. 

She  hears  a  hand  upon  the  door, 
A  footstep  on  the  oaken  floor, 

And  turns  her  child  to  see. 
Alas,  poor  mother !  on  this  earth 
The  child  to  whom  thou  gavest  birth 

Can  never  come  to  thee. 

The  foot  is  slow  that  was  so  light ; 
The  soft  brown  hair  is  thin  and  white  ; 

The  eyes  are  sad  and  dim. 
Earth's  ties  have  broken  one  by  one ; 
She  sitteth  by  a  hearthstone  lone  : 

Yet  still  she  waiteth  him ! 

Poor,  loving  heart !  that  will  not  let 
Its  worn  and  weary  self  forget 

The  one  it  loveth  so ! 

Watch  —  wait  —  since  best  it  seemeth  thee. 
GOD,  in  his  own  good  time,  will  be 

The  healing  of  thy  woe. 


Watt! 

IT  is  so  hard  to  wait ; 
To  move,  a  very  tortoise,  or  a  crab, 
When  the  keen  soul  would  speed  unto  its  goal, 
As  thoughts  to  the  beloved !  yet  wait  we  must ; 
Most  oft  in  silence,  since  we  dare  not  breathe 
Our  secret  dreams,  but  must  suppress  them  still. 
Buried  —  as  low  and  deep  as  if  our  hearts 
Were  but  so  many  graves  wherein  we  hide 
The  dead  from  sight.     But  not  from  memory, 
Nor  yet  from  hope ;  since,  in  the  coming  time, 
We  look  to  greet  their  resurrection-morn. 


SAY  AND    SEAL.  193 

Rarely  it  cometh !    Life's  unresting  stream 
Doth  bear  our  dreams,  like  as  ourselves,  away. 
Ourselves,  as  trees,  do  float  upon  the  tide. 
Our  hopes  and  dreams,  as  leaves  and  blossoms  torn 
From  those  poor  trees,  are  scattered  far  and  wide, 
Or  sink  beneath  the  wave.     Better  such  grave ; 
Since  no  unfriendly,  no  malignant  eyes 
May  pierce  the  veil  of  waters  to  our  dead,  — 
The  dead  who  have  for  urn  the  human  heart. 

It  is  so  hard  to  wait !    We  know  it  well. 
Life  hath  no  lesson  half  so  deeply  graved 
Upon  the  heart ;  for  we  repeat  it  oft ; 
Yea;  make  unto  ourselves  strange  luxury    x 
Of  repetition.     It  is  hard  to  wait. 
Yet  could  we  better  bide  the  hope  deferred, 
But  that  our  soul,  with  bitter  prescience  feels 
How  all  unlike  the  thing  we  long  for  now 
The  granted  boon  will  be !     As  if,  in  youth, 
We  gathered  store  of  fair  and  golden  fruit 
Against  a  day  of  festival ;  and  found 
Our  golden  fruits  were  Sodom-Apples  all ! 

It  is  so  hard  to  wait.    Yet  must  we  bear 
This  trial  of  our  patience  patiently. 
What  though  the  spirit  fretteth  at  its  chains, 
And  beat  its  wings  against  its  walls  of  flesh? 
Vain  must  the  struggle  and  the  battle  be, 
Shice  finite  warreth  with  no  finite  fate. 
Yet  from  this  strife,  unequal  though  it  prove, 
Ofttimes  a  patience,  kingly,  grand,  doth  rise, 
To  whom  our  spirit  yieldeth  willingly 
True  homage  and  allegiance  evermore ; 
Till  in  our  patience  we  possess  our  souls. 


anfc 

SAY  whatever  is  most  loving ; 

Be  thou  patient,  tender,  true ; 
All  the  future  shall  be  proving 

What  one  loving  heart  can  do. 
Say,  unto  poor  hearts  that  sorrow, 

Christ  himself  hath  wept  as  ye; 
Seal  it,  telling  of  that  morrow 

When  nor  grief  nor  sin  shall  be. 

13 


194  CHANGES. 

Say  kind  words,  —  they  oft  are  needed; 

Scatter  far  their  precious  seed ; 
Though  they  seem  to  fall  unheeded, 

Never  fail  they  of  their  meed. 
Seal  them,  by  thy  earnest  praying 

O'er  the  seed  thy  hand  doth  sow ; 
Soon  or  late,  thy  toil  repaying, 

For  GOD'S  harvest  they  shall  grow. 

Say  the  words  most  sweet  and  holy, 

Such  as  pure  lips,  only,  speak; 
Seal  them,  by  a  life  most  lowly, 

By  a  spirit  true  and  meek. 
gay  _  it  may  be,  words  of  preaching, 

Though  thou  be  no  priest  of  GOD; 
Seal  them,  by  the  silent  teaching 

Of  the  ways  thy  feet  have  trod. 


TI^IE  works  sad  changes.    Life,  that  seemed  so  fair, 

Doth  lie  before  us,  as  a  desert,  bare 

Of  all  the  sunshine  of  its  early  clay ; 

Its  freshness  and  its  beauty  passed  away. 

And  we,  in  very  bitterness,  look  back 

To  the  lost  glory  of  its  trodden  track ; 

Look  back,  to  find  its  flowers  faded,  dead, 

And  all  but  Memory's  clinging  fragrance  fled. 

What  solemn  stillness  o'er  the  past  is  shed 

As  o'er  some  lonely  city  of  the  dead ! 

All  broken  friendships,  buried  loves  are  there ; 

Bright  hopes,  sweet  dreams,  poor  tombstones  of  despair, 

That  in  the  church-yard  of  the  past  gleam  white ; 

Pale,  shadowy  phantoms  of  some  old  delight. 

Back  into  the  sunshine !    Let  the  dead  Past 

Bury  its  dead !     For  the  heart  loves  the  light,  — 
All  lovely  things  are  precious  in  its  sight,  — 

And  singeth  evermore,  —  "Night  cannot  last, 
And  the  sweet  morning  dawneth !  " 

Ye  who  weep, 
Ye  who  mourn  o'er  the  Past  as  o'er  some  grave 

'Neath  whose  cold  sod  the  heart's  beloved  sleep, 
Look  up  unto  the  skies  that  o'er  ye  smile, 


NOTHING.  105 

And  read  therein  your  future.    No  cloud  there 
But  yields  to  sunshine.     Fiercest  storms  awhile 

May  shut  the  brightness  out;  and  winds  may  rave 
As  in  discordance  of  a  dark  despair; 

But  lo !  between  us  and  the  blackest  night 

The  bow  of  promise  shines  ;  GOD'S  signet  fair 

Bridging  the  gloom  with  rays  of  living  light. 


WHEN  the  years  shall  have  brought  you  loneliness, 

And  your  home  hath  never  sound 
Of  the  old-time  voices  clear  and  sweet, 

And  the  laughter  ringing  round ; 
When  there  shall  come  to  vour  aching  heart, 

'Mid  the  silence  and  the  chill, 
A  thirst  for  the  touch  of  one  little  hand, 

"  And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still !  " 

Through  the  long,  long  hours  of  the  evening, 

In  the  same  old  room  and  place, 
You  will  pine  for  the  smile  and  the  greeting, 

And  the  quiet,  loving  face  ; 
And  "  nothing"  shall  meet  your  vision, 

Not  a  shadow,  not  a  trace, 
Of  the  little  form  that  was  wont  to  be 

In  the  old  familiar  place. 

Through  the  long,  long  hours  of  the  evening, 

You  will  sit  alone  for  aye, 
For  you  know  that  she  cannot  come  again 

With  the  coming  of  the  day. 
You  feel  that  no  sense  of  your  yearning, 

No  tender  and  loving  thrill, 
Can  bring  her  back  to  your  side  again 

From  her  chamber  low  and  still. 

The  night' with  its  wealth  of  dreaming 

Shall  ever  the  past  renew ; 
In  its  silent  watches  bringing 

Sweet  memories  unto  you. 
You  will  see  her  beside  the  old  casement, 

Mark  the  blushes  come  and  go 
'Neatli  your  gaze,  while  her  busy  fingers 

Ply  the  needle  to  and  fro. 


196  A    PICTURE   FOR   MY   GALLERY. 

All  night  you  shall  be  dreaming 

Of  fond  fancies  like  to  this ; 
But  the  dawn  of  clay  shall  crumble  away 

The  poor  fabric  of  your  bliss. 
For  the  sun  ou  her  grave  is  shining, 

And  the  grass  long  since  has  grown 
"Where  the  dust  in  its  silent  keeping 

Holds  the  heart  that  was  all  your  own. 

And  never,  for  all  your  moaning, 

And  never,  for  all  your  pain, 
Will  the  tender  light  of  those  sealed  eyes 

Look  love  to  your  own  again. 
Her  heart  has  forgotten  its  throbbing,  — 

Her  pulse  thrills  not  to  your  hand  ; 
And  the  dust  keepeth  all  in  its  silence,  — 

Silence  of  the  Silent  Laud. 


&  Picture  for  mg 

AN  evening  of  sweet  June,  serene  and  still. 
The  moon  yet  lingered  o'er  the  western  hill; 
And  sweet  and  low  the  perfume-laden  breeze 
Went  whispering  by  the  scarcely  trembling  trees. 
Most  fair  the  night ;  but  in  proud,  lighted  halls 
The  revel  had  begun ;  and  light  foot-falls 
Kept  time  to  merry  music  in  the  dance. 

Apart,  alone,  a  man,  all  weary  stood, 

With  brow  all  bent,  and  look  as  if  his  blood 
Had  frozen  long  ago,  so  never  glance 
From  sunniest  eyes  could  make  it  warm  again. 
A  shape  moved  past  him  with  most  queenly  grace ; 
He  saw  the  profile  of  a  sweet,  pale  face, 

Whose  bloom  had  stirred  his  heart  in  other  days, 
And  was  not  yet  forgotten.    His  calm  blood 
Gave  one  wild  bound  —  no  more ;  and  then  he  stood 

Transformed  before  her,  meeting  the  still  gaze 
Of  eyes  that  had  no  smiling  in  their  light, 
Nor  aught  of  gladness  in  them.     Coldly  bright, 
They  stabbed  him  through  and  through  with  their  deep 

scorn, 

And  left  him  only  night  for  that  brief  morn. 
Not  wild  regrets,  not  passionate  wealth  of  tears, 
Not  all  the  love  of  all  those  perished  years, 
Could  win  her  lost  love  back ! 


THANKSGIVING,    1861.  197 

Coldly  she  met  him,  —  coldly  touched  his  hand, 
With  one  brief  word,  he  well  could  understand, 

To  cross  no  more  her  track ; 
Then  turned  aside,  and  went  upon  her  way, 
As  if  no  thought  of  him  had  e'er  held  sway 
O'er  her  caltn  pulses,  stirring  them  to  know 
Life's  sweetest  gladness,  and  life's  deepest  woe. 


f&imj,  1861. 


A  THANKSGIVING  !    Be  it  rendered 

For  the  fair  fruits  of  the  earth  ; 
For  the  blessings  GOD  hath  given 

Unto  every  human  hearth  ; 
But  far  away  the  fields  lie  wasted, 

And  the  only  harvest  there 
Is  of  blood,  and  spoil,  and  carnage, 

Death,  and  anguish,  and  despair. 

A  thanksgiving  !    May  GOD  grant  it  ! 

So  the  wild  and  fevered  prayer 
Borne  from  many  a  quiet  homestead 

Sound  no  more  upon  the  air. 
Prayer,  from  hearts'  suspense  is  breaking 

For  the  loved  to  battle  gone  ; 
Prayer,  whose  only  hope  is  Heaven,  — 

He  hath  left  his  dwelling  lone. 

A  thanksgiving  !    Who  shall  reckon 

All  the  agony  and  tears 
That  have  been  already  lavished, 

And  must  be,  through  coming  years. 
Closest  household  ties  are  broken,  — 

Scattered  far  and  wide  that  band  ; 
Brothers  now  are  meeting  brothers, 

But  a  sword  is  in  each  hand! 

A  thanksgiving  !     Who  shall  utter  it? 

Shall  it  sound  from  battle-plain, 
'Mid  the  moans  of  wounded,  dying, 

O'er  the  last  sleep  of  the  slain? 
Shall  it  sound  where  streaming  banners 

Wave  o'er  Victory's  crimson  path  ; 
A  grand  Te  Deum  o'er  the  thousands 

Falling  on  that  day  of  wraih  ? 


198  KILLED  IN  BATTLE. 

A  thanksgiving !    As  if  given 

For  the  dark  and  deadly  strife ; 
An  lo  Pa3an  'mid  the  battle 

For  the  waste  of  human  life. 
For  the  waste  ?    What  other  naming 

Since  our  brother  is  the  foe  ? 
Most  unholy  waste  and  slaughter,  — 

GOD  and  angels  call  it  so. 

And  it  matters  not  what  meaning 

Men  may  put  upon  their  deeds ; 
In  the  high  and  holy  Heaven 

Is  a  record  no  one  heeds ; 
One  that  fadeth  not,  nor  changeth, 

Aye  unalterably  the  same ; 
Only  cancelled,  if  in  season 

The  angel  of  repentance  came. 

A  thanksgiving !    May  GOD  grant  it ! 

For  sweet  Peace,  —  soon  may  it  come, 
Hushing  all  discordant  voices, 

Bringing  joy  to  every  home. 
No  wild  moaning,  no  heart-breaking, 

Crushing  out  the  gladness  then; 
But  a  spirit  all  things  ruling, 

Breathing  good  will  unto  men. 


in  Battle. 

"  DEAD  !  "  and  my  heart  gathered  up  in  one  minute 

All  the  sounds  of  the  battle ; 

I  heard  the  death-rattle, 
And  I  saw  the  red  blood,  and  he  lying  in  it, 

My  brave  one,  my  only ! 
I  thought  not  of  this  when  I  smiled  on  his  going, 

So  proud  of  his  beauty. 
I  knew  that  he  went  at  the  summons  of  duty ; 

And  in  my  gladness 

No  vision  of  madness 
Came,  telling  how  soon  his  heart's  blood  would  be  flowing 

Away  with  the  battle-hours, 

Staining  the  flowers, 

And  I,  left  all  lonely ! 

"  Dead ! "  and  I  know  not  where  he  may  be  lying ! 
The  hands  of  the  foe  gave  our  dead  to  the  earth ; 


LUISA.  199 

And  1  could  not  be  with  him  when  he  was  dying ; 

Yet  /gave  him  birth ! 

And  to  see  him  no  more,  — 

Oh !  but  this  falleth  sore 
On  the  heart  that  had  only  one  treasure  ; 
And  I  let  him  go  from  me,  my  pride,  my  pleasure, 

And  I  waited  the  flying 

Of  the  days  of  his  absence,  till  that  day  should  come 
Which  should  bring  him  to  me.     /  waited  at  home, 

And  he  —  lay  a-dying ! 

I  would  I  were  mad,  and  I  think  I  must  be 

When  the  thought  of  that  battle-field  cometh  to  me ; 

And  I  see  his  life-blood  flowing 
With  no  hand  to  stanch  it,  and  over  him  going 

The  dark  tide  of  the  battle ! 
While  I,  by  the  light  of  the  home-fire,  warm  gleaming, 

Had  been  dreaming 

Of  my  brave  one,  my  only ! 
Of  his  soon  coming  home,  to  leave  me  so  lonely 

Nevermore. 

And  he?  the  swift  sands  of  his  life  had  been  flying, 
.  And  ran  out  'mid  the  rattle 

Of  the  death-shots  above  him; 

And  none  that  did  love  him 

Cheered  his  way  to  that  shore 
Where  the  sounds  of  the  battle  shall  be  heard  nevermore ! 

"  Dead !  "    O  GOD  !  and  the  mother  that  bore  him 

May  not  look  on  his  face  again; 
May  not  know  where  the  grass  groweth  o'er  him 

On  that  far-off  battle-plaiu ! 


WHAT  more  can  I  give  than  that  I  have  given? 

All  my  life  was  your  own ; 
Save  some  love  for  my  mother,  and  one  hope  of  heaven 

That  I  would  not  disown. 
Oh !  well  I  remember  an  evening  of  summer,  — 

The  roses  were  blooming,  I  know,  — 
When  a  heart  and  a  hand  were  given  away, 

Full  twenty  years  ago. 

That  hand,  though  you  never  have  claimed  it, 
Hath  been  kept  from  other  men ; 


200  LUISA. 

And  the  heart  then  placed  in  your  keeping, 

Is  as  true  to  you  now  as  then. 
Is  as  true ;  but  you  care  not  for  it, 

As  you  would  were  it  not  your  own ; 
For  the  charm  of  the  winning  is  over, 

And  what  is  won  you  disown. 

Was  it  well  to  have  burdened  a  lifetime 

With  a  love  so  exacting  as  yours. 
That  asked  all,  yet  gave  nought  in  requital 

Save  the  strength  that  in  silence  endures? 
Was  it  well  ?    It  was  not ;  and  I  know  it ; 

Have  known  it  for  weary  years ; 
The  years  that  have  proved  you  self-lover,  — 

The  years  I  have  counted  with  tears. 

It  may  be  that  you  have  forgotten,  — 

It  was  twenty  years  ago,  — 
How  full  of  life  and  life's  sunshine 

Was  the  heart  you  have  tortured  so. 
It  may  be  that  you  have  forgotten  ; 

Did  you  dream  that  /could  forget 
That  far-off  summer,  whose  glory 

Is  lingering  round  me  yet  ? 

You  came  to  our  quiet  homestead, 

Not  once,  but  ever  and  oft, 
Till  you  wiled  my  heart  from  its  haven, 

With  your  voice  so  low  and  soft. 
And  I  gave  it.     Had  I  known  to  what  keeping, 

I  had  laid  it,  still  and  low, 
Where  the  sentinel  stones  of  yon  church-yard 

Are  standing  amid  the  snow. 

Perchance  you  may  weep  when  I'm  dying, 

May  miss  me  when  I  am  gone ; 
But  tears  will  not  blot  out  self's  record, 

Will  not  for  the  past  atone. 
Yet  I  love  you  —  have  loved  you  —  must  love  you 

Though  I  know  you  are  not  worth 
One  little  throb  of  the  patient  heart 

You  will  give,  so  soon,  to  earth. 

You  will  give  ?  —  even  so ;  for  your  footsteps 
Will  be  traced  on  the  broken  sod 

They  will  fling  aside  from  my  last  long  home, 
When  my  soul  shall  have  gone  to  GOD. 

You  will  follow  my  dust  to  its  resting,  — 


THE  LEAVES  ARE   BEGINNING    TO   FALL.       201 

The  dust  you  once  called  so  fair ; 
And  go  back  to  life,  never  more  to  think 
Of  her  who  is  lying  there ! 


Heafos  are  fagfnnmcf  to  jFalL 

OH  !  soft  and  sweet  through  the  green  old  forest 

Floats  the  chime  of  the  mountain  rill ; 
As  merry,  as  glad,  as  never  upon  it 

Fell  the  shadows  solemn  and  still. 
The  flowers  are  blooming,  the  birds  they  are  singing, 

Sunshine  and  summer  are  over  all ; 
But  the  worm,  Decay,  feels  his  latent  triumph,  — 

The  leaves  are  beginning  to  fall ! 

More  softly  sweet  than  the  stream  of  the  forest 

A  voice  is  singing  to  me 
A  low,  glad  song  of  the  days  so  golden ; 

But  a  shadow  is  on  its  glee. 
Though  the  words  ring  out  like  a  child's  sweet  laughter, 

Yet  the  voice  it  trembles  through  all ; 
And  the  lips  of  the  singer  are  white  and  quivering,  — 

The  leaves  are  beginning  to  fall ! 

Oh !  brightly  the  rose  on  that  cheek  is  blushing, 

And  the  brow  is  saintly  fair; 
But  the  spell  of  change  on  the  heart  now  lying 

Will  soon  be  written  there. 
Life's  cup  so  sweet  hath  grown  strangely  bitter, 

She  hath  tasted  of  its  gall ; 
And  over  life's  sunshine  the  shadows  gather,  — 

The  leaves  are  beginning  to  fall ! 

GOD  help  thee,  poor  heart !  thy  summer  is  over; 

Its  blossoms  are  withered  and  dead ; 
And  the  sharp,  keen  blast  of  the  coming  winter 

Is  sweeping  above  thy  head. 
Yet  bend  thee  low  to  the  blast  so  deadly; 

It  hath  come  —  must  come  —  to  all ; 
For  no  heart  of  earth  but  hath  known  that  anguish,  — 

The  leaves  are  beginning  to  fall ! 

Oh !  soft  and  sweet  through  the  green  old  forest 
Floats  the  chime  of  the  mountain-rill ; 

As  merry,  as  glad,  as  never  upon  it 

Fell  the  shadows  solemn  and  still. 


202  ANNIE. 

The  flowers  are  blooming,  the  birds  they  are  singing, 
Summer  and  sunshine  are  over  all; 

But  the  worm,  Decay,  feels  his  latent  triumph,  — 
The  leaves  are  beginning  to  fall ! 


UNDER  the  snow  she  lieth,  pale  and  cold, 

This  quiet  winter  morning, 
For  Death  has  gathered  to  his  silent  fold 

The  heart  you  broke  with  scorning. 
The  white,  white  brow,  the  lips  apart, 

Are  all  in  marble  moulded ; 
And  lightly  over  the  pulseless  heart 

The  little  hands  lie  folded. 

Under  the  snow  she  lieth.     Had  you  not  come 

With  your  soft  voice  and  smiling, 
From  out  the  haven  of  her  quiet  home 

That  gentle  heart  beguiling, 
Under  the  snow,  so  silent,  and  so  pale, 

She  had  not  now  been  lying ; 
While  over  her  moans  the  winter  gale, 

And  the  winter  wind  goes  sighing. 

Under  the  snow  she  lieth.    We,  alone, 

Are  by  our  hearth-stone  weeping. 
We  miss  the  presence  of  our  only  one 

Out  in  the  church-yard  sleeping. 
But  you  are  jesting  with  the  courtly  throng 

In  yonder  halls,  fair  lighted, 
While  she  is  lying  quiet  graves  among,  — 

The  loving  heart  you  blighted. 

Under  the  snow  she  lieth,  pure  and  sweet, 

With  stillest  heart  forever; 
And  all  earth's  hours,  cold  and  fleet, 

Can  bring  her  to  us  never. 
And  you  may  come  to-morrow,  false  as  fair, 

The  olden  vows  repeating, 
To  find  the  silence  of  our  life's  despair 

Sole  answer  to  your  greeting. 


WISHES.  203 

Breams. 

SWEET  dreams !  ay,  and  many ; 

Fair  and  glorious,  pure  and  bright, 
Filling  all  night's  darkened  chambers 

With  their  own  unshadowed  light; 
Till  the  darkness  seems  to  vanish 

In  the  broad  blaze  of  the  day, 
And,  from  the  sorrow  at  your  heart, 

Your  soul  is  borne  away. 

Sweet  dreams!  ay,  and  pleasant! 

Let  their  witchery  come  to  you 
As  the  light  of  olden  friendship, 

As  a  throb  of  love  most  true ; 
Till  your  heart  hath  gathered  gladness 

From  those  visions  fair  and  sweet, 
And  its  pulses  bound  most  lightly, 

So  radiant  shapes  to  greet. 

Sweet  dreams !  ay,  forever, 

Might  my  wish  but  prove  a  spell, 
All  fairest  hopes  should  crown  your  life, 

All  bright  things  with  you  dwell ! 
Let  mine  be  all  the  darkness, 

Let  mine  be  all  the  pain ; 
It  will  matter  little  unto  you, 

And  I  will  but  call  it  gain. 

Sweet  dreams !  ay,  the  sweetest 

Man  ever  wove  on  earth, 
Fill  all  your  life  with  pleasantness, 

Crown  most  lovingly  your  hearth. 
And  I  ?  —  but  it  doth  not  matter, 

On  Death's  cold  and  silent  shore, 
If  my  love  be  all  forgotten  ; 

Yet  GOD  keep  you  evermore ! 


I  WOULD  that  my  heart  had  armor  of  proof, 

Such  as  no  woman  can  wear 
Till  her  brow  hath  lost  its  glory  of  youth, 

And  the  snow  lieth  on  her  hair. 
I  would  weave  its  chains,  so  close,  so  close, 

That  no  arrow  could  enter  in ; 
And  he  must  be  the  most  cunning  of  foes, 

From  its  covert  my  heart  to  win. 


204  THE   NIGHT  IS   FAR    SPENT. 

I  would  that  I  had  the  strength  of  a  man, 

When  the  days  grow  weary  and  long, 
So  my  hands  might  work  out  what  my  head  did  plan, 

And  be,  for  all  labor,  strong. 
It  were  better  for  heart,  and  better  for  brain, 

To  have  work,  and  enough,  to  do; 
So  to  shut  out  the  dull  and  the  throbbing  pain 

That  stealeth  all  senses  through. 

But  my  hands  had  no  strength  for  the  work  to  be  done, 

So  their  labor  is  little  worth ; 
And  I  leave  behind  a  low  burial-stone, 

And  nothing  more  on  earth. 
And  there  was  no  armor  of  proof  for  me; 

My  heart  was  stolen  away ; 
And,  far  and  lone,  by  the  sounding  sea, 

They  are  making  its  grave  to-day  ! 

Oh !  vain  are  all  wishes  that  cannot  bring 

Their  own  fulfilment  with  them ; 
That  have  no  promise,  as  of  early  spring, 

For  the  summer's  diadem. 
We  breathe  our  wishes ;  but  the  hour  flies, 

And  their  graves  are  at  our  feet. 
They  have  died,  as  the  glory  of  autumn  dies 

In  the  winter's  snow  and  sleet. 

Oh,  well  for  our  souls  that  the  shadows  come, 

To  darken  the  sunny  clay; 
Else  we  might  not  think  of  that  other  home 

Where  the  light  fades  not  away. 
And  GOD  be  blessed  for  the  lack  of  love,  — 

Love,  making  earth  so  bright ; 
Else  we  might  not  strive  for  the  world  above, 

"  The  world  that  makes  this  right !  " 


is  far  Spent ;  tfje  3Bag  10  at 

LOOK  up,  beloved.  Dark  and  drear  the  way, 
Wherein  our  weary  feet  are  blindly  straying, 

But  cheer  thee  still !  Not  far  off  is  the  day ; 
And  it  shall  come,  if  but  for  earnest  praying. 

Look  up,  beloved.    All  our  life  o'erpassed 
Is  but  a  shadow  to  the  life  before  thee. 


"NELLA."  205 

Earth's  hours  are  fleeting  silently  and  fast, 
And  Heaven's  light  will  soon  be  shining  o'er  thee. 

Look  up,  beloved !     Think  not  thou  of  me ; 

But  give  thy  thoughts  unto  yon  Heaven  only. 
The  days  must  go,  and  I  shall  be  with  thee 

Ere  summer  comes.    I  shall  not  long  be  lonely. 

Look  up,  beloved !     For  the  night  doth  flee ; 

The  stars  are  dim ;  the  clay  is  swiftly  dawning! 
Cold !  cold !  and  there  is  only  night  for  me, 

But  never  tears ;  for  thou  hast" found  the  morning. 


"  Nella." 

O  EARTH  !  the  snow  is  lying  on  thy  breast, 
And  thy  brow  is  pale  and  cold ; 
Canst  thou  not  give  to  me  one  little  fold 
Of  thy  white  shroud?    Canst  thou  not  give  me  rest? 

I  am  so  weary ! 

The  life  before  me  seems  so  dreary, 
Under  a  cloud  it  spreadeth  far  away ; 
Silence  and  darkness  are  upon  its  day ; 
And  from  the  storm  there  is  no  place  of  hiding. 
No  "  Shadow  of  a  great  Rock  in  a  weary  land" 
Is  there  for  me  abiding. 
Without  the  gate  I  stand ! 

O  Earth !  thou  seem'st  so  fair  and  sweet, 
In  thy  large  mother  heart 
Is  there  not  room  for  me  ? 
For  I  have  borne  a  lone  and  bitter  part 
In  life's  poor  realm  so  long. 
Fain  would  I  come  to  thee ; 
And  rest  my  weary,  bleeding  feet 
Thy  graves  among ! 

0  Earth !  I  bring  thee  nought, 
Unless  it  be  a  pale  and  sad  despair. 

1  have  no  offering  rich  and  rare, 
To  win  a  boonVrom  thee. 

The  little  work  that  I  have  wrought 

Must  die  with  me, 

Or  is  not  mine  to  give ; 

I  could  not  even  make 

Life  sweeter  seem  for  the  dear  sake 

Of  one  I  loved.    Why  should  I  linger  here  ? 

He  hath  no  need  of  me ! 


206  COBWEBS. 

O  Earth !  to  thee  I  come ; 
Take  thou  thy  poor  child  home, 
And  give  me,  give  me  rest, 

I  am  so  weary ! 
Rock  me  to  slumber  on  thy  loving  breast ; 

And,  from  this  world  so  dreary, 
"  Where  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep,' 
Let  me  pass  away  in  sleep. 

There  are  no  tears 

In  the  green  valleys  where  thy  children  lie ; 
Silence  is  with  them  continually. 

And  all  the  coming  years, 

Whose  warring  voices  may  not  cease, 

Shall  bring  them  only  peace ! 


Cofcfoete. 

I  HAVE  read  in  a  childish  rhyme, 

Of  a  woman  weird  and  dry, 
Who  evermore,  in  that  ancient  rhyme, 

"  Sweeps  the  cobwebs  from  the  sky; " 
And  she  had  a  broom  of  fashion  rare. 

Could  I  find  its  like  again, 
I  would  sweep  away,  with  a  breath  of  air, 

The  cobwebs  from  my  brain. 

They  are  delicate,  fragile  things, — 

These  cobwebs  slight  and  thin ; 
But  each,  like  a  chain  of  iron,  clings 

To  the  chamber  it  enters  in. 
And  my  brain  hath  many  a  room 

Where  they  gather  so  thick  and  fast, 
That  it  seemeth  to  me  a  cloud  of  gloom 

Is  over  my  spirit  cast. 

I  have  seen  the  cobwebs,  by  thousands,  caught 

On  the  slender  blades  of  grass ; 
And  each  gossamer  thread  with  dew  o'erfraught 

For  a  string  of  gems  might  pass. 
But  the  burning  day  riseth  from  the  sea, 

And  each  tiny  jewelled  string 
Yieldeth  all  its  glory  and  beauty  to  be 

Its  earliest  offering. 

But  alas!  the  cobwebs  that  cross  the  brain 
Are  not  so  fair  to  see ; 


A    THANKSGIVING.  207 

And  I  wish  that  old  woman  would  come  again, 

And  bring  her  broom  to  me ! 
And  I'd  sweep  away  with  a  steady  hand, 

Till  there  were  no  cobwebs  left, 
And  the  neatest  dame  in  all  the  land 

Should  praise  the  hand  that  swept. 

But  it  needeth  a  touch  as  light  as  air, 

And  an  eye  most  sharp  and  keen, 
And  a  broom  of  fashion  strange  and  rare, 

To  sweep  those  chambers  clean. 
For  the  human  brain  is  a  fragile  thing, 

And  in  brushing  the  webs  away, 
We  may  break  some  tender  and  viewless  string 

That  is  Reason's  only  stay. 

I  know  all  this ;  yet  these  cobwebs  small 

Do  weary  me,  night  and  day ; 
And  I  wish  for  that  broom,  so  to  sweep  them  all 

From  my  restless  brain  away. 
Oh,  that  ancient  rhyme,  how  it  haunteth  me, 

With  the  woman  weird  and  dry, 
Who,  with  her  broom,  ever  merrily 
"  Sweeps  the  cobwebs  from  the  sky !  " 


FOR  strength  that  could  outlive  all  pain, 

And  conquer  silently ; 
Yea,  still  the  tumult  of  the  brain, 

O'ermastering  agony ; 

I  thank  thee,  O  my  GOD  ! 
For  joy  that  came  to  lighten  gloom, 

And  dissipate  the  night ; 
That  bade  the  early  spring-flowers  bloom, 

And  made  the  summer  bright; 

I  thank  thee,  O  my  GOD  ! 
For  Hope,  whose  token-rainbow  fair 

The  cloudy  heaven  doth  span, 
So  shutting  out  all  dark  despair,  — 

A  promise  sweet  to  man ; 

I  thank  thee,  O  my  GOD  ! 
For  trust  unquestioning  and  deep, 

Long  cherished,  and  long  proved; 
That  looks  beyond  the  quiet  Asleep 

Thou  gives c  thy  beloved ; 

I  thank  thee,  O  my  GOD  I 


208 


For  Faith  o'erpassing  death  ;  for  all 
That  thou  hast  given  me  ; 

For  rest  in  hope  when  earth-clods  fall; 
For  Immortality,  — 

I  thank  thee,  0  my  GOD  ! 


&0  J.  fH.  S>. 

WHAT  shall  I  wish  thee?    Earthly  dreams  are  wasted; 

False  as  fair,  they  perish,  dying  on  life's  strand; 
And  ere  the  draught  earth  proffers  hath  been  tasted 

The  very  chalice  turns  to  ashes  in  our  hand. 

So  I  hold  it  not  to  thee. 
What  shall  I  wish  thee  ?    Joys  of  earth  endure  not ; 

Fading  and  dying,  they  vanish  from  our  way. 
Only  joys  of  heaven,  brightly  pure,  that  lure  not 

With  a  false  lustre,  may  never  know  decay ; 

And  GOD  grant  them  unto  thee! 
What  shall  I  wish  thee  ?     Life,  it  beareth  slowly 

Pleasant  things  of  earth,  and  mortal  hopes  away. 
Hopes  of  the  Hereafter,  meekly  kept,  and  holy, 

Shall  bear  both  fruit  and  blossom,  in  GOD'S  clay. 

May  he  give  them  unto  thee ! 
What  shall  I  wish  thee  ?    Life  is  full  of  changes ; 

Sore  and  bitter  trials  of  our  constancy ; 
But  in  the  Better  Land,  GOD  so  arranges 

That  there  are  no  changings  in  eternity. 

May  it  dawn  in  joy  for  thee ! 
What  shall  I  wish  thee?    Hopes  that  have  no  fading; 

Holy  joys  that  linger  through  the  long  To  Be ; 
Faith,  upon  whose  brightness  cometh  never  shading; 

And  the  rest  GOD  giveth.    May  all  these  things  be 
Treasures  that  he  giveth  thee ! 


PINING, 

For  the  bright  sun  shining 
O'er  mine  own  hills  far  away ; 
Till  the  glory 

Of  life's  one  angel  story, 
Seems  to  darken  from  my  day ; 


AT  THE    CHAPEL   SCHOOL.  209 

Longing, 

As  memories  come  thronging, 
For  home  voices  evermore. 

None  so  sweet 
May  here  my  name  repeat. 
Their  echo  floats  not  on  this  foreign  shore. 

Lonely, 

With  unfamiliar  faces  only 
To  meet  my  wearying  eye ; 

Yearning 

For  the  long  way  unreturning, 
For  the  old  home  ere  I  die ! 

Dying 

By  weary  inches ;  worn  out  with  vain  sighing ; 
Mine  own  land  to  see  no  more ; 

Never, 

Through  all  the  long  forever, 
To  leave  my  dust  on  that  beloved  shore ! 


at  tjje  Cfjapel  &djc0I. 

THE  little  rain-runlets  are  flowing, 
And  swift  down  the  hill  they  go ; 

While  the  autumn  wind  is  blowing 
The  dead  leaves  to  and  fro. 

Out  on  the  breezy  uplands 

The  sheaves  they  are  standing  still ; 
And  far  away  by  the  brookside 

I  hear  the  click  of  the  mill. 

But  the  huskers  are  not  in  the  corn-field, 
For  the  farrows  are  fall  of  rain ; 

And  the  miller  thanks  GOD  for  the  shower 
That  helps  him  to  grind  his  grain. 

The  crow  flies  over  the  tree-tops, 
To  his  nest  in  the  old  pine-tree ; 

And  he  caweth,  —  caweth  hoarsely,  — 
Who  hath  such  a  cold  as  he  ? 

But  little  he  cares  for  the  weather, 
And  less  he  cares  for  the  wind. 

So  only  the  man  in  the  corn-fleld 
Will  leave  a  few  ears  behind. 
14 


210  AT  THE   CHAPEL   SCHOOL. 

The  merry  song-birds  of  summer 
To  a  warmer  clime  have  flown ; 

And  the  robins,  and  later,  the  snow-birds, 
Have  the  fields  to  themselves  alone. 

But  the  fields  they  are  white  in  winter 
When  the  snow  is  on  the  ground ; 

And  the  poor  little  robins  and  snow-birds 
Oft  wonder  where  food  may  be  found. 

And  ever  nearer  and  nearer, 

To  some  friendly  house  they  come, 

Searching  for  crumbs  that  are  scattered, 
Till  they  feel  themselves  at  home. 

So  all  through  the  cold,  cold  winter, 
GOD  giveth  the  birds  their  food ; 

Till  the  first  warm  flush  of  the  spring-time 
Melteth  the  snow  in  the  wood. 

Till  the  tender  blades  of  the  grasses 
Are  green  on  each  sunny  slope, 

And  the  swelling  buds  of  the  forest 
Are  as  harbingers  of  hope. 

Softly  the  waters  go  flowing 
Through  plashing  meadow  and  plain, 

Till  the  sun,  in  its  thirst,  hath  drained  them, 
And  the  sods  are  all  dry  again. 

Then  back  to  their  nests  come  the  song-birds, 
And  the  furrows  are  green  again; 

And  the  crows  caw  loud  in  the"tree-tops, 
As  the  farmer  sows  his  grain. 

My  rhyme  it  is  well  nigh  ended, 

But  is  there  no  moral  here, 
That  the  earnest  spirit  may  gather 

From  the  changings  of  the  year? 

As  near  to  the  footsteps  of  winter 
The  promise  of  spring  must  be, 

So  after  Death's  final  changing 
Conies  the  dawn  of  eternity ; 

And  it  needeth  that  we  be  ready 

When  the  summons  comes,  to  go, — 

When  the  winds  of  Death  shall  be  blowing 
Our  dead  leaves  to  and  fro. 


THE  FOREST  GRAVE.  211 


tout!)  tfje  Bag? 

As  a  child  that  is  grieving  o'er  some  broken  toy, 

Half  teased  into  laughter,  half  tempted  to  tears, 
Doth  show  us  a  smiling,  part  sorrow,  part  joy, 

As  best  suiteth  his  years ; 
So  dieth  the  day ! 

As  a  maiden  who  foldeth  her  hands  unto  sleep, 

With  the  first  dream  of  love  nestling  warm  at  her  heart, 
Doth  smile  in  her  slumber,  while  soft  blushes  creep 

To  her  cheek,  and  depart, 
So  dieth  the  day ! 

As  a  man  o'er  whose  passing  the  tempest  hath  rolled, 

Shutting  out  the  sweet  light  of  the  sun ; 
Till  the  death-hour  comes,  as"  the  night  on  the  wold, 
And  the  life-race  be  run ; 
So  dieth  the  day ! 

As  a  king  who  lies  shrouded  in  purple  and  gold, 

The  glory  of  empire  veiling  the  pall ; 
The  perfume  of  incense  sweet  over  the  mould 

That  of  earth  is  the  all ; 
So  dieth  the  day ! 

As  a  priest  who  has  stood  by  the  altar  of  GOD, 

With  pure  hands  uplifted  in  prayer  and  in  praise ; 
Whose  feet  in  the  pathways  of  sin  have  not  trod, 

Nor  forsaken  his  ways ; 
So  dieth  the  day ! 


5Tfje  JForest  ©rafce. 

IN  the  green  flush  of  summer's  glorious  noon, 
The  ancient  forest  reared  its  waving  crest ; 
A  world  of  various  foliage.     Rocky  glens  — 
Their  steep  sides  clothed  with  mosses  and  pale  flowers; 
Unresting  streams  that  won  their  devious  way 
Now  here,  now  there ;  their  ripple,  musical, 
Just  touched  to  silver  by  some  transient  ray 
Of  curious  sunshine  peeping  through  the  shade 
That  was  not  all  impervious  ;  —  hidden  dells, 
Alive  with  shadows  from  the  tall  trees  thrown, 
Full  of  all  slumbrous  sounds ;  low  murmurings 


212  THE  FOREST  GRAVE. 

Of  leaves  that  whispered  to  the  passing  wind ; 
And  sleepy  echoes  of  the  brook  that  wooed 
The  little  forest-flowers ;  —  all  this,  and  more, 
The  grand  old  wood  did  hold  within  its  heart. 
All  sounds  of  insect  life,  all  songs  of  birds, 
Did  make  themselves  a  home  amid  the  leaves ; 
The  leaves  that  stirred  like  pulses,  full  of  life, 
And  green  with  summer  beauty.     Silently, 
With  steady,  ceaseless  flow,  a  river  ran 
The  forest  aisles  between.    A  mighty  stream, 
That  for  a  thousand  miles  had  wound  its  course, 
Nor  yet  had  seen  the  sea.    A  thousand  more 
Must  be  o'erpassed  ere  with  the  tided  main 
Its  inland  waters  meet,  and,  meeting,  blend. 
A  virgin  river  yet,  it  had  not  known 
The  keel-compelling  bark ;  nor  heard  the  song 
Of  the  rough  sailor  singing  o'er  his  work 
Some  old  familiar  strain.    No  woodman's  axe 
Had  left  its  impress  on  the  forest  groves ; 
Nor  foot  of  white  man  trodden  the  free  wilds, 
Unchartered  yet,  and  consecrate  to  peace. 

A  sail  upon  the  waters,  and  a  sound 
Breaking  the  stillness  other  than  the  song 
Of  bird  or  insect ;  even  the  low  hum 
Of  distant  voices,  singing  some  sweet  hymn 
To  soothe  the  dying.    Nearer  and  more  near, 
The  solitary  bark  came  on ;  a  wail 
Hushing  the  solemn  hymn.    And  so  Death  came, 
The  one  inevitable,  certain  guest, 
Upon  that  river,  to  that  unknown  shore ! 

Slowly  the  vessel  came  up  in  the  wind, 
Drooping  its  white  wings.     Swiftly  the  anchor  fell. 
When  evening  came,  serene  and  beautiful, 
The  weary  bark  did  seem  to  lie  and  rest 
Upon  the  quiet  waters,  as  a  child 
Rocked  into  softest  sleep.    Above,  around, 
The  night  was  holy  with  its  burning  stars,  — 
The  stars  that  seemed,  like  angel  eyes,  to  keep 
Watch  o'er  a  slumbering  world.    Within  the  bark, 
They  kept  sad  vigil  o'er  a  sleep  more  deep 
Than  night  can  scatter  from  her  poppy  crown, 
Or  woo  with  aconite. 

How  still  she  lies, 

The  pale,  pale  maiden,  with  close-sealed  eyes! 
Her  little  hands  are  folded  on  her  breast, 
Released  forever  from  all  earthly  toil. 


A  DIRGE.  213 

The  little  feet  are  crossed ;  so,  never  more, 
To  tread  the  paths  of  earth ;  and,  at  her  heart 
There  is  no  beating  of  the  throbbing  pulse 
To  measure  out  the  moments  as  they  fly ; 
Silence  is  throned  there ! 

Was  it  for  this, 

The  mother,  from  her  home  amid  the  hills, 
Had  brought  her  only  child?    Was  there  no  room 
Beside  the  old  church  in  the  Vandois  vale 
For  one  so  young  and  fair?    Alas  !  the  sword 
Had  gone  through  all  the  land.     The  little  church 
Had  not  one  poor  stone  left  to  mark  the  spot 
Where  prayer  and  praise  had  once  gone  up  to  heaven ; 
And  o'er  the  graves  the  heavy  plough  had  passed, 
Effacing  all.     The  land  had  been  bereaved 
Of  all  its  children.     They  had  no  place  there 
In  life  or  death ;  nor  church,  nor  home,  nor  grave ! 
So  o'er  the  sea,  unto  these  forest  wilds, 
The  mother  brought  her  child.     And  this  the  end. 
The  little  feet  touched  never  foreign  strand ; 
Though  by  the  margin  of  that  mighty  stream 
The  little  maid  is  sleeping. 

To  the  shore, 

When  morning  dawned,  a  sad  procession  came. 
Slowly  they  moved  unto  a  grassy  slope 
Whereon  the  rising  sun  was  shining  warm, 
Silently  sipping  dew  from  flowerets ; 
And  there  they  laid  the  little  sleeper  down ; 
Smoothing  above  her  rest  the  soft  green  sods 
That  ne'er  before  had  known  such  saddest  use. 
Low  at  her  feet  a  wild  sweet-briar  bush 
Was  set  in  silence.     At  her  head,  a  cross, 
Carved  rudely  from  a  simple  block  of  stone, 
Was  raised  'mid  prayerful  voices ;  token  sweet 
That  on  that  shore,  in  the  far  wilderness, 
A  child  of  GOD  had  found  a  quiet  rest, 
Waiting  the  resurrection ! 


SLEEP  !  for  the  day  is  dead ; 

The  night  is  coming  on ; 
The  stars  are  out  in  the  skies  o'erhead, 

But  the  harvest-moon  is  gone,  — 
The  harvest-moon  that  was  shining  bright 

On  the  river  far  below, 


214  A  NATION'S  PRAYER. 

When  last  we  met  in  the  hush  of  night 
One  little  week  ago. 

Sleep  !  for  thy  toil  is  o'er ; 

Thine  idlesse  hath  been  won ; 
And  thy  hands  may  lie  folded  evermore,  — 

Lie  folded  under  the  sun. 
Never  thy  feet  shall  be  weary  now, 

Never  thy  step  be  slow ; 
The  earth  it  is  lying  above  thy  brow, 

The  waters  beside  thee  flow. 

Sleep  !  for  thy  rest  is  come ; 

Thy  work  hath  all  been  done ; 
Thy  soul  hath  entered  another  home, 

Thy  spirit's  goal  is  won. 
But  some  hearts  of  earth  are  throbbing  yet, 

With  a  pain  they  cannot  lull ; 
And  oh !  the  world  of  sad  regret, 

And  the  life  that  seems  so  dull ! 

Sleep !  so  to  dream  no  more 

Of  the  tempest  on  the  sea; 
Of  the  waves  that  dashed  on  a  stormy  shore ; 

Of  a  strong  man's  agony. 
So  to  hear  no  more,  through  the  long,  long  night, 

The  cry  of  drowning  men ; 
Or  to  shudder  at  sight  of  the  sea  so  bright, 

That  was  so  pitiless  then. 

Sleep !  for  the  day  is  dead ; 

The  throbbing  heart  is  still ; 
And  the  winds  go  moaning  o'er  thy  bed,  — 

That  little  grave  on  the  hill. 
Sleep!  life's  bitterness  is  all  past, 

And  far  from  thee  removed ; 
Thine  aching  heart  hath  found  rest  at  last ; 

Sleep  long  and  well,  beloved ! 


&  Nation's 

SEND  help  to  us,  O  GOD  ! 

Behold  a  mourning  land ; 
In  all  her  pleasant  places  death 

And  desolation  stand. 


A  NATION'S  PRAYER.  215 

Our  homes  in  ashes  lie, 

Or  own  another  lord ; 
Thy  temples  are  a  mockery, 

Unhouored  by  thy  Word. 

Send  help  to  us,  O  GOD  ! 

Our  sons  lie  low  in  death ;        ^ 
Our  daughters  dwell  in  ruined  homes ; 

And  wait,  with  stinted  breath, 
News  from  the  battle-plain. 

While  on  that  battle-plain, 
Blood  floweth  in  a  crimson  rain,  — 

Earth  wears  a  crimson  stain. 

Send  help  to  us,  O  GOD  ! 

Bid  the  wild  carnage  cease ; 
And  grant  unto  our  bleeding  land 

The  blessed  boon  of  peace. 
End  thou  this  agony ; 

This  bitterness  assuage ; 
And  blot  from  out  our  history 

This  dark  and  fatal  page. 

Send  help  to  us,  O  GOD  ! 

In  this  our  sore  distress ; 
Let  thy  right  hand  be  strong  to  save, 

To  succor  and  to  bless. 
Behold  our  native  land, 

Do  thou  her  peace  restore ; 
Her  brow  is  red  with  Cain's  dark  brand, 

Thy  judgment  woundeth  sore. 

Send  help  to  us,  O  GOD  ! 

And  heal  the  bitter  strife 
That  strikes  such  deep  and  deadly  blows 

At  all  the  nation's  life. 
Hear  thou  our  earnest  cry ; 

We  stretch  our  hands  to  thee ; 
Thou,  only,  canst  all  aid  supply, 

Now,  and  eternally. 

Send  help  to  us,  O  GOD  ! 

From  out  thy  plenteous  store, 
Until  sweet  Peace  her  olive-branch 

Shall  stretch  from  shore  to  shore ; 
Until  the  stain  of  blood 

Be  blotted  from  the  land ; 
Until  the  dear  old  brotherhood 

Once  more  clasp  hand  in  hand ! 


216  A    THOUGHT. 


WOULDST  see  my  home?    Come,  ere  the  spring  departing 

Leaves  its  rich  promise  to  the  summer's  bloom; 
Ere  yet  the  roses  from  their  green  nests  starting, 

Load  lightest  breezes  with  their  sweet  perfume ; 
Come  —  where  the  restless  breezes,  icily  blowing, 

Bend  low  the  grasses  on  the  summer  lea; 
Where  the  old  river  with  its  wealth  is  flowing 

On  to  the  margin  of  the  soundless  sea; 
Come  to  my  home ;  and  thou  shalt  find  me  sleeping, 

Lying  with  still  hands  folded  on  my  breast ; 
With  eyes  close  sealed  from  all  earthly  weeping, 

And  pulses  silent,  and  a  heart  at  rest. 


I  SOMETIMES  think 

This  life  of  ours  a  strangely  tangled  maze, 
Wherein  we  wander  blindly ;  seeking  still 
In  our  bewilderment,  some  clue  to  find 
That,  followed  closely,  shall  bring  us  at  length 
Unto  some  beaten  track  wherein  our  feet 
May  walk  assuredly.     But  we  find  it  not : 
Unless  GOD  leadeth  us  with  loving  hand 
By  ways  we  have  not  known  unto  himself. 
Behold !  the  paths  we  shape  at  our  poor  will 
Wend  in  and  out,  —  hither  arid  thither  turn,  — 
But  only  shut  us  deeper  in  the  maze 
We  fain  would  quit  forever.     Of  ourselves 
We  have  no  power  to  break  the  secret  spell 
That  still  doth  hedge  us  in.     Impalpable 
Are  the  strong  chains  that  bind  us,  and  unseen; 
We  know  not  where  to  seek  them ;  how  to  break 
The  yoke  our  flesh  must  bear.     We  murmur  oft ; 
Yea,  in  our  impotence,  do  vainly  rage, 
As  ocean  fretteth  'gainst  the  senseless  rock. 
Of  what  avail  ?    Not  ours  the  hand  to  break 
Those  viewless  fetters.     Only  in  his  time 
Will  God  take  off  the  yoke.    And  then  he  sends 
The  Silent  Angel  of  the  Silent  Land 
To  set  the  captives  free. 


BOLD  IN   YOUTH.  217 


in  tfje  Bitter 

OUT  in  the  bitter  cold !     Ay !  past  your  door, 

A  little  child  is  straying  — 
A  little  child  —  like  to  your  own  Lenore, 

When  first  she  went  a-Maying. 
The  snow  is  falling  on  her  shoulders  white, 

She  is  footsore  and  weary ; 
She  hath  no  shelter  from  the  cold  and  night ; 

And  the  streets  they  are  so  dreary ! 

Out  in  the  bitter  cold  (the  wintry  street 

Her  home,  she  hath  no  other) 
Are  lingering  yet  the  little  naked  feet ; 

Poor  child !  she  hath  no  mother ! 
What  if  your  own  Lenore  were  in  her  place? 

Ay!  pause,  and  on  it  ponder; 
The  same  keen  hunger  in  her  little  face 

As  in  that  poor  child's  yonder. 

Out  in  the  bitter  cold!  and  night  is  near; 

And  on  the  chill  earth  lying, 
(While  at  your  hearth  are  warmth  and  pleasant  cheer,) 

The  little  child  is  dying. 
Above  her  form  the  snow-wreaths,  falling  fast, 

Thicker  and  thicker  gather. 
GOD  takes  the  little  one  home  at  last,  — 

She  had  no  other  father ! 

Out  in  the  bitter  cold !    And  you  let  slip 

The  chance  that  had  been  given ; 
You  turned  the  chalice  from  your  careless  lip 

That  was  foretaste  of  heaven. 
Bethink  you  of  the  solemn  judgment-day, 

And  —  "  Inasmuch  as  ye 
Poured  never  sunshine  on  that  poor  child's  way, 

Ye  did  it  not  to  Me ! " 


n 

AY  !  youth  is  bold ! 

It  flings  the  gauntlet  at  a  world  of  foes ; 
Says  "  I  am  ready!  "  ere  the  battle-hour, 
And  panteth  for  the  strife.    It  hath  no  fear 
Of  what  the  bitter  morrow  may  bring  forth ; 


218  UNDER    THE   SNOW. 

It  pauses  not  to  count  the  costly  price 
The  future  payeth  for  the  present  joy; 
It  hath  no  looking  back !     It  nothing  knows 
Of  doubts  and  fears  that  still  perplex  the  man, 
Bidding  him  pause,  and  think.     It  rushes  on, 
And  will  not  tarry  for  precaution's  sake, 
Nor  yet  for  fear  of  that  which  coraeth  after; 
And  in  its  faith  how  beautiful  is  youth ! 

How  beautiful !  yet  full  of  fancy,  too; 
For  in  our  youth  we  do  create  a  world 
Full  of  all  pleasant  images.     The  shapes 
That  glide  across  our  dreams  are  robed  in  light, 
And  are  not  shadows  in  our  eager  eyes ; 
For  we  look  only  through  a  tinted  glass, 
Hose-coloring  all  we  see.     A  veil  of  flowers 
Doth  float  between  us  and  the  naked  steep 
Our  feet  must  learn  to  climb.    Ay !  though  they  leave 
A  crimson  stain  upon  the  pitiless  stone, 
It  may  not  be  untrod !    As  time  flies  on, 
We  learn  how  falsely  fair  our  dreams  have  been ; 
And  Life,  with  its  realities,  doth  wear 
A  visage  strangely  stern.     The  rosy  tints 
Have  faded  into  gray.     The  veiling  flowers 
Have  felt  the  early  frosts,  and  fled  before 
Those  heralds  of  the  winter  coming  on. 
The  first  bright  vision  of  our  sunny  youth, 
O'er  which  we  trace,  with  fingers  trembling,  cold, 
The  bitterness  of  "  changed,"  is  but  a  type 
Of  all  that  follows  after. 

Peace  and  Hope 

In  time,  may  be  companions  of  our  way ; 
And  sweet  Content,  a  blessed  spirit,  dwell 
Within  our  quiet  hearts.    But  weary  days, 
Alternate  grief  and  pain,  all  pangs  that  still 
The  human  heart  can  bear,  must  first  have  wrought 
The  work  they  had  to  do.     Then,  calm,  resigned, 
Our  souls  sure  anchored  on  a  changeless  Faith, 
We  may  front  life  with  an  unshrinking  eye, 
And  say  "  the  bitterness  of  death  is  past !  " 


je  Snofoi. 

LIGHTLY  my  boat  on  the  river  tosses, 

But  I  am  lying  low, 
Never  again  the  light  oars  to  feather, 


UNDER    THE   SNOW.  219 

While  the  bright  waters  flow. 
Little  it  troubleth  me, 
Under  the  snow. 

Iii  my  own  garden  weeds  may  be  rampant, 

And  the  green  grasses  grow ; 
Never  a  flower  left,  my  hands  had  planted, 
Never  a  rose  to  blow. 

Little  it  troubleth  me, 
Under  the  snow. 

In  the  old  orchard  the  sweet  apple-blossoms 

May  make  as  goodly  a  show ; 
But  bloom  they  freely,  or  bloom  they  rarely, 
I  shall  not  see  them  blow. 

Little  it  troubleth  me, 
Under  the  snow. 

Down  in  the  valley  the  little  brook  runneth, 

Down  where  the  violets  grow ; 
But  never  this  hand  of  mine  shall  gather 
Flowers  where  the  brook  doth  flow. 
Little  it  troubleth  me, 
Under  the  snow. 

Oft  on  the  shore  of  the  glorious  river, 

Idly  listening  to  its  flow, 
Passed  I  the  hours ;  still,  softly  singing, 
Onward  the  tiny  wavelets  go. 
Little  it  troubleth  me, 
Under  the  snow. 

On  the  old  homestead  the  doom  may  be  written, 

And  the  old  walls  lie  low,  lie  low ; 
Over  my  birthplace,  so  fair,  so  pleasant, 
Over  it  all,  the  plough  may  go. 
Little  it  troubleth  me, 
Under  the  snow. 

From  the  old  hill-side  the  pines  may  vanish ; 

Where  they  were  darkening,  grass  may  grow ; 
Out  in  the  sunshine  the  storms  may  gather, 
Wearily,  drearily,  winds  may  blow. 
Little  it  troubleth  me, 
Under  the  snow. 


220  LITTLE  BY  LITTLE. 


WHAT  !  must  I  barter  my  hand  for  gold  ? 

Forge  myself  the  chain  that  must  fetter  me  ? 
Myself  for  myself  weave  the  Nestus-fold  ? 

Low  in  my  grave  I  had  better  be ! 

What  hath  my  youth  with  his  age  to  do  ? 

Quick  are  my  pulses ;  his  slowly  beat. 
Dearly  and  lifelong  this  moment  I'd  rue 

If  ever  my  soul  with  its  twin  soul  should  meet. 

I  do  not  love  him ;  and  what  have  I  done 
That  my  life  should  be  poured  as  on  sand  is  the  rain? 

To  mate  my  young  years  with  his  wintering  sun, 
Were  like  chaining  the  quick  and  the  dying  again! 

But  I?  —  See,  the  blood  floweth  free  in  my  veins ! 

I  have  health,  youth,  and  beauty;  but  what  has  he? 
A  house  like  a  palace,  and  some  ill-gotten  gains ; 

But  what  is  his  wealth  or  his  palace  to  me  ? 

You  say  that  my  hands  are  too  small  for  toil ; 

Too  soft  and  white  for  the  winning  of  bread  ; 
I  would  work  day  and  night  through  the  darkness  and  moil, 

Ere  stoop  to  the  fate  I  despise  and  dread. 

Would  you  chain  a  lark  to  the  dungeon  floor, 
Where  never  the  light  of  the  sun  may  be? 

On  its  life  and  its  song  would  you  shut  the  door? 
Let  it  die  in  darkness  and  agony  ? 

You  would  say  that  the  bird  had  no  part  in  the  gloom; 

That  ever  it  singeth  at  heaven's  gate ; 
Yet  my  youth  you  would  give  to  a  living  tomb, 

And  my  heart  to  a  darker  and  deadlier  fate. 

What  I  must  I  barter  my  hand  for  gold  ? 

Forge  myself  the  chain  that  shall  fetter  me? 
Myself  for  myself  weave  the  Nestus-fold? 

Low  in  my  grave  I  had  rather  be ! 


Eittle  bg  ILittle. 

LITTLE  by  little  the  blades  of  grass 
Through  the  brown  crust  of  the  earth  shall  pass ; 
Till  a  thousand  plains  are  all  green  and  fair 
With  the  blades  that  are  waving  in  summer  air. 


LITTLE  BY  LITTLE.  221 

Little  by  little,  and  one  by  one, 
Flow  the  tiny  drops  from  the  rifted  stone ; 
Till  a  mighty  river  doth  downward  sweep 
So  to  meet  the  waves  of  a  mightier  deep. 

Little  by  little,  and  grain  by  grain, 
The  sands  swept  over  the  fertile  plain ; 
Till  they  buried  the  cities  of  old  so  low 
That  the  feet  of  the  traveller  over  them  go. 

Little  by  little,  yea,  inch  by  inch, 
The  mighty  rocks  that  would  scorn  to  flinch 
At  the  tempest's  wrath,  by  attrition  worn 
Shall  become  the  dust  they  may  seem  to  scorn. 

Little  by  little,  —  the  breadth  of  a  hair,  — 
Shall  the  moaning  sea  make  itself  a  lair 
In  the  cavernous  gloom ;  or  wear  away 
The  haughty  cliffs  that  once  faced  the  day. 

Little  by  little  the  acorn  swells 
The  folding  valves  of  its  tiny  cells ; 
Little  by  little,  its  growth  shall  be, 
Till  it  spreadeth  abroad  a  grand  old  tree. 

Little  by  little  —  so  man  doth  change 
Till  his  old  self  to  himself  would  be  strange ; 
All  that  is  left  of  it  is  but  a  shade ; 
Quietly,  silently,  that,  too,  shall  fade. 

Little  by  little  life  from  us  cloth  go ; 
But  heedless  are  we  of  its  ebb  and  its  flow ; 
Till  suddenly,  strangely,  we  find  ourselves  cast 
On  the  shore  of  the  grave,  and  stranded  at  last. 

Little  by  little  we  heap  to  ourselves 
Riches  and  pelf;  that,  like  trickiest  elves, 
Now  here,  and  now  there,  shall  elude  us  at  last 
When  fondly  we  hope  that  our  grasp  holds  them  fast. 

Little  by  little  we  rear  some  shrine 
That  shall  hold  all  we  reckon  as  most  divine ; 
But  the  storm  shall  shatter  it,  lightning  burn, 
Till  but  ashes  is  left  in  its  funeral  urn. 

Little  by  little,  so  endeth  my  song. 
Little  by  little  might  make  it  too  long. 
Little  by  little  death  creeps  on  apace, 
Little  by  little,  so  endeth  the  race ! 


222  KTRIAC. 


SHE  sitteth  quiet,  and  pale,  and  still ; 

A  woman  frail  and  poor. 
Only  in  her  eyes  shines  the  living  will,  — 

The  power  to  wait  and  endure. 

Her  limbs  are  fettered  by  weakness  down ; 

She  hath  no  strength  to  stir; 
But  the  goal  that  shall  be  of  her  life  the  crown 

Is  shining  afar,  to  her. 

Heavy  the  road  she  must  travel  o'er,  — 

A  weary  way  to  go ; 
And  though  life  is  so  near  to  the  other  shore, 

Her  purpose  ripens  full  slow. 

Never  she  falters ;  no  turning  back 

For  her  can  written  be ; 
Onward  she  presses  in  the  same  old  track; 

Changeless  of  purpose  is  she. 

In  her  hand  —  that  hand  so  white,  yet  so  strong  — 

She  holdeth  the  keys  of  heaven ; 
And  all  issues  that  unto  her  life  belong, 

To  her  keeping  have  been  given. 

Patient  she  sits,  in  the  old  carved  chair 

For  a  royal  queen  most  meet ; 
With  the  Cross  on  her  breast,  —  for  no  Crown  is  there, 

And  the  anchor  'neath  her  feet. 

White  are  the  robes  she  loveth  to  wear 

As  the  righteousness  of  saints : 
For  her  heart  knows  nothing  of  dark  despair, 

And  she  wearies  not,  nor  faints. 

Lonely,  and  chained  to  that  old  carved  chair 

How  can  her  will  be  done  ? 
Ask  of  the  clouds  and  the  darkened  air 

If  ceaseth  to  shine  the  sun ! 


*  Ye  Saxon  for  ye  Church. 


KYRIAC.  223 

Over  the  length  and  the  breadth  of  the  earth, 

Her  heralds  they  wander  forth ; 
To  the  kingly  palace,  the  peasant's  hearth, 

To  the  utmost  South  and  North. 

No  seas  so  grand  to  be  traversed  o'er, 

And  never  a  gulf  so  wide, 
But  her  messengers  cross  unto  either  shore, 

And  there  stand  side  by  side. 

Little  she  cares  for  dividing  seas ; 

She  can  bridge  them  with  a  "WORD," 
And  crush  out  the  forms  of  old  tyrannies 

Though  never  she  wields  a  sword. 

Meekly  this  woman  beareth  her  lot,  — 

It  hath  pain  and  agony,  — 
Since  she  knoweth  she  is  not  of  GOD  forgot, 

Being  his  for  eternity.  * 

And  the  bitter  trials  her  faith  must  bear, 

She  counteth  gain,  not  loss ; 
And  never  she  yieldeth  to  grim  despair, 

For  her  shoulders  bear  the  Cross. 

By  the  rivers  deep,  by  the  sounding  sea, 

By  the  little  forest  rills, 
She  will  bear  that  cross ;  forever  to  be 

As  an  ensign  to  the  hills. 

The  Cross,  despised  and  scorned  of  men,— 

The  once  accursed  tree,  — 
Shall  be  lifted  up,  a  holy  thing,  when 

The  gods  of  the  heathen  flee. 

Behold !  the  days  come,  when  this  woman  meek 

Shall  be  clothed  with  terrible  grace ; 
When  the  gods  of  this  world  shall  be  poor  and  weak, 

And  as  dust  before  her  face. 

When  the  powers  of  hell  shall  be  overthrown, 
And  the  Prince  of  the  air  cast  down ; 

When  might  shall  be  in  the  Cross  alone, 
And  unto  it  cometh  the  Crown ! 


224  ALONE. 


©ur  Eittle  Brother. 

THE  wind  it  bloweth  o'er  the  grass, 
The  summer  cloudlets  lightly  pass 

From  out  the  dark  blue  heaven ; 
For  far  away  the  shadows  are ; 
All  with  the  night  and  with  the  star 

Unto  a  new  earth  given ; 
But,  underneath  the  grassy  sod, 
Our  little  brother  sleeps  with  GOD. 

The  days  they  glide  as  heretofore ; 
As  swift  to  pass  and  be  no  more ; 

In  the  morrow  dying. 
Silent  all  they  come  and  go ; 
Like  to  a  river's  icy  flow, 

No  ripple  o'er  it  flying ; 
For,  underneath  the  grassy  sod, 
Our  little  brother  sleeps  with  GOD. 

The  childish  laugh,  that  was  so  sweet, 
Hath  died  away,  as  waters  fleet, 

That  never  know  returning. 
The  echo  of  some  little  feet, 
That  gladdened  all  the  quiet  street, 

Is  hushed  with  their  inurning; 
For,  underneath  the  grassy  sod, 
Our  little  brother  sleeps  with  GOD. 

O  mother!  in  your  patient  eyes, 
What  untold  depth  of  sorrow  lies, 

Insatiate  of  weeping ! 
Eyes  turning  still  with  longing  gaze 
Where,  underneath  the  summer  rays, 

The  little  one  lies  sleeping. . 
Smile,  mother,  smile,  above  that  sod ! 
Sleeps  not  our  brother  with  his  GOD  ? 


UNDER  the  clover,  so  fresh,  so  fragrant, 
Lieth  the  little  one,  sleeping  sound ; 

Idly  murmuring,  wandering,  vagrant, 
Breezes  are  blowing  above  the  mound ; 


WEARY.  225 

Tearful  and  sad,  by  the  empty  cradle, 
Sitteth  the  mother,  alone  —  alone ! 

Never  beneath  the  old  oaken  rafter 

Soundeth  the  patter  of  little  feet ; 
Never  the  echo  of  childish  laughter 

In  music  that  waiting  ear  shall  greet. 
Tearful  and  sad,  by  the  empty  cradle, 

Sitteth  the  mother,  alone  —  alone ! 

Under  the  stars  a  river  floweth, 

In  the  fair  Southern  land,  far  away ; 
But  a  stain  of  blood  with  the  pure  wave  goeth,  — 

Blood  that  was  warm  at  the  close  of  day, 
Up  in  the  North,  by  an  empty  cradle, 

Sitteth  the  fond  wife,  alone  —  alone ! 

Alas,  poor  heart !     She  had  thought,  in  her  sorrow, 
That  never  the  father  should  see  his  child ! 

That  fear  shall  be  dead  with  the  coming  morrow, 
And  so,  poor  heart,  be  thou  reconciled, 

Content  to  watch  by  an  empty  cradle. 
GOD  will  not  leave  thee  alone  —  alone ! 

Under  the  clover,  so  fresh,  so  fragrant, 

Lieth  the  little  one,  sleeping  sound ; 
Under  the  stars,  by  the  river  vagrant, 

Lieth  the  father  whom  death  hath  found ; 
Tearful  and  sad,  by  the  empty  cradle, 

Sittelh  wife  and  mother,  alone  —  alone ! 


GOD  loveth  the  little  children. 

Would  I  were  a  child  again ; 
Or  lying  where  summer  daisies 

Might  shut  out  these  years  of  pain ! 
Oh !  to  be  quietly  lying 

Where  the  sun  shines  on  the  hill ; 
Where  the  pulses  of  earth  might  be  throbbing, 

But  my  heart  forever  still ! 

I  know  I  am  slowly  dying 

Of  a  thirst  that  is  agony, 
For  the  clasp  of  some  loving  fingers, 

For  the  smile  of  a  loving  eye. 
15 


226  THE   LAST   GREETING. 

I  hear  the  laugh  of  the  waters, 

But  they  never  flow  to  me. 
Ever  and  always  receding, 

How  they  mock  mine  agony ! 

I  am  so  weary  of  waiting; 

So  burdened  with  hopeless  years ; 
So  bowed  to  the  earth  by  long  watching; 

So  wasted  by  futile  tears  ; 
That  my  soul  were  a  bird  out  of  prison, 

Rejoicing  at  its  release, 
Were  it  freed  from  its  earthly  bondage, 

And  so  evermore  at  peace ! 

Oh !  to  be  quietly  lying 

Where  the  daisies  and  buttercups  grow; 
Where  its  shadow,  the  old  mossy  steeple, 

At  even,  may  over  me  throw; 
So  never  to  feel  one  wild  pulsing 

Of  the  heart  that  throbbed  in  vain ; 
So  to  know  no  more  the  old  bitterness,  — 

The  old,  old  throb  and  pain  1 


<5{je  East  ©reeling. 

ONLY  a  hand-clasp,  Agatha, 
And  you  will  give  nothing  more? 

See,  the  breeze  yon  white  sails  tilling, 
While  my  boat  waits  by  the  shore. 

Waits ;  —  and  I  must  go,  Agatha, 

It  may  be  for  evermore ; 
For  the  sea  so  fair  is  as  pitiless, 

And  the  deep  may  not  restore. 

Only  a  hand-clasp,  Agatha? 

Think ;  I  have  loved  you  so  long ; 
And  the  heart  of  a  man  may  be  broken, 

Though  it  seemeth  so  brave  and  strong. 

Hark !  'tis  the  signal  for  parting ; 

And  were  I  to  dally  now, 
Not  even  your  hand's  lily  whiteness 

Could  wipe  the  stain  from  my  brow. 

Only  a  hand-clasp,  Agatha, 
And  my  prayer  hath  been  in  vain. 


UNTOLD  LOVE.  227 

GOD  send  his  sun  on  your  path  to  shine; 
'Twill  not  smile  on  mine  again ! 


IT  is  true ; 

We  women  all  too  oft  let  our  hearts  go 
From  out  our  own  true  keeping;  knowing  not 
Unto  what  heritage  of  wasted  love 
We  give  them  in  their  fresh  and  golden  spring. 
Until  some  sharp  dividing  blow  shall  come,  — 
Unknown,  unfeared,  —  severing  the  sweet  bond; 
And  all  our  life  is  dust,  red  with  heart's  blood ; 
And  yet  we  do  not  die !     We  fold  our  hands 
Above  the  gaping  wound,  and  so  shut  out 
All  mocking  eyes ;  all  ken  of  careless  hearts ; 
And  in  the  silence  of  a  life  we  keep 
Our  dead  most  sacredly. 

But  life  seems  long; 

Made  longer  by  the  lack  of  that  sweet  bond 
Whose  tender  clasp,  whose  true  and  steadfast  shield 
We  may  not  have  forever !     Yet  we  yearn 
O'er  sweet  child-voices,  knowing,  all  the  while, 
No  child  shall  call  us  "  mother !  " 

It  is  hard 

To  have  our  life,  as  woman,  wrecked  and  lost, 
For  that  the  bark  wherein  we  launched  our  all 
Was  only  drifting  from  us.     Never  cry 
Rang  out  across  the  waters,  from  the  lips 
That  did  but  whiten  in  their  agony ; 
For  all  our  woman's  pride  pressed  deep  the  seal 
Upon  the  ashen  lips  and  bleeding  heart; 
And  so  the  tide  swept  on  that  never  brought 
Our  hearts'  beloved  back.     GOD  only  grant 
They  were  no  readers  of  the  human  heart, 
So  our  life-secret  in  our  own  still  hearts 
! 

We  little  know 
How  many  graves  of  wasted  love  lie  low 
With  the  poor  hearts  that  covered  them !     So  low, 
That  no  material  eye  may  fathom  them. 
GOD  keepeth  all  such  love ;  nor  wasted  so. 
Back  to  the  one  immortal  Fount  of  Love 
Each  tiny  riplet  flows.     Henceforth  to  be 
For  aye  a  part  of  that  eternal  sea 
O'er  which  no  wreck  may  go ! 


228  POET  AND   REAPER. 


iiti's  Sorwfo. 


THREE  lives  the  less  upon  GOD'S  earth,  —  and  yet 
The  child  was  smiling  in  the  telling  of  it! 
I  questioned  how  they  died.    A  drowned  man 
The  one  ;  the  third,  of  grievous  battle-  wounds  ; 
At  home  the  other  lingered  long,  then  died 
Of  some  disease,  —  she  knew  not  what  it  was  ; 
And  yet  they  were  her  brothers,  lately  dead, 
And  she,  a  girl  of  thirteen  years  or  more  ! 
Certes,  she  had  not  grieved  o'ermuch  ;  and  so 
The  passing  sadness  was  a  thing  of  nought. 
Ah  !  children  keep  no  reckoning  with  death  ; 
And  dust,  once  given  to  its  kindred  dust, 
Is  only  dust  to  them  !    They  will  not  keep 
Graves  dewy  green  through  the  long  lapse  of  years. 


Poet  ant« 

THE  song  of  a  poet  was  ringing 

Down  the  silence  of  the  years, 
What  time  the  reapers  were  binding 

The  last  of  the  golden  ears. 

But  little  it  matters  who  sang  it, 
Or  what  hands  bound  up  the  sheaves ; 

(The  shadow  of  death  was  falling 
On  the  falling  summer  leaves.) 

For  know,  the  work  of  the  poet 

In  that  song  was  fully  wrought ; 
Yet  it  scarce  holds  a  place  in  the  Present ; 

To  Time  leaves  its  germs  of  thought ; 

But  those  germs  shall  have  freshness  and  beauty, 

When  the  writers  of  to-day, 
With  their  sparkle  and  froth  of  the  wine-cup, 

Shall  have  utterly  passed  away. 

And  what  if  the  reaper  keep  not 

One  ear  of  the  golden  grain  ? 
What  if  his  work  be  to  gather  in, 

And  another  reap  the  grain  ? 


IT  IS   NOUGHT.  229 

Let  him  rest !    It  was  his  to  gather 
The  harvest  some  other  had  sown. 

On  a  thousand  shores  may  be  scattered 
The  seed  from  that  harvest  grown. 

On  the  tops  of  the  westering  hedgerows 

Shineth  the  setting  sun  ; 
And  the  poet's  song  is  ended, 

And  the  reaper's  work  is  done ! 


If   IS 

ONE  little  word, 
Sharper  than  any  sword, 
And  at  my  feet  my  world  was  lying, 

Shattered,  —  dying,  — 
So  never  earthly  skill, 
Nor  strength  of  human  will, 
Could  mould  the  fragments  into  form  again. 
A  life  of  tears  were  vain ! 

Oh !  softly  tread, 
Nor  with  light  finger  touch  my  dead. 

It  passed  in  such  despair, 
The  thing  that  yesterday  was  so  fair ! 

O  Sun !  withdraw  thy  mocking  light ; 

A  yet  unburied  form  is  here ; 
Titter  for  darkness  and  the  night, 

And  dying  of  the  year. 

Glide  by,  O  Day !  in  silentness. 

No  tender  moaning,  no  caress, 
May  this  still  shadow  have. 

I  dare  not  keep  its  memory. 

So,  shrouded  in  mine  agony, 
Unto  its  nameless  grave 

Let  the  poor  wreck  go  down. 
The  coming  years  must  bear  the  loss, 
All  life  take  up  the  thorned  cross 

And  wear  it  patiently. 
Who  knoweth,  but  some  after  day 
May  put  the  bitter  cross  away, 

And  hail  the  coming  crown  ? 


230        "  WOMEN  ARE  sucn  HYPOCRITES!" 


OVER  how  many  graves  our  feet  are  treading! 

Behold !  the  very  dust  they  scatter  light 
Was  once  instinct  with  life.     Some  brave  soul,  leading 

An  armed  host  to  battle  for  the  right, 
Dwelt  in  this  clay.     Or  bard,  who  sang  his  glory, 

Forgotten  now,  as  he  had  never  been ; 
Or,  nearer  home,  the  old  familiar  story 

Of  love,  o'er  which  the  grass  is  growing  green. 

But  other  "graves  "  there  are ;  uncounted,  only 

Because  the  heart  doth  keep  them,  still  and  low, 
Sad  graves,  and  silent ;  all  apart  and  lonely, 

O'er  which  no  breath  of  coming  spring  may  blow. 
We  keep  them  darkly,  as  a  miser  keepeth 

His  hidden  treasures  from  all  envious  eyes ; 
As,  'neath  the  laughing  river,  darkly  sleepeth 

Some  unknown  corse  whereon  no  sunshine  lies. 

Green  are  the  "  graves  "  where  our  beloved  lie  sleeping! 

On  their  round  sod  the  summer  sun  smiles  down. 
Memorial-stones  their  faithful  watch  are  keeping, 

And  winter  robes  them  with  its  snowy  crown ; 
But  "graves  "  o'er  which  the  heart  is  daily  closing, 

Are  buried  all  too  deep  for  sun  or  snow ; 
No  resurrection  breaks  their  cold  reposing; 

No  breath  of  life  o'er  their  "  dry  bones  "  may  blow. 


"OTomen  are  sucfj  Pfgpocriteg ! " 

TRUE,  we  are  hypocrites.    We  women  wear 
Light,  mocking  smiles,  to  veil  the  heart's  despair. 
Nay,  our  own  anguish  we  will  most  deride 
With  angry  scorn,  in  bitterness  of  pride. 
With  lightest  laughter,  most  fantastic  jest, 
We  shroud  the  death  that  warreth  in  our  breast ; 
And  bear  us  bravely,  so  no  other  know 
The  secret  of  our  irremediable  woe. 

I  have  known  women,  in  the  very  hour 
That  saw  their  love  mown  down  like  any  flower, 
Break  out  in  sportive  jest,  or  gayer  song, 
And  be  the  centre  of  a  brilliant  throng, 


HYMN.  231 

While  smiling  lip,  and  cheek  of  rose  concealed 
The  secret  pang  that  never  was  revealed ; 
Who  made  it  still  their  pride's  incessant  task 
To  wear  on  lip  and  brow  a  lifelong  mask. 

But  all  have  not  this  panoply  of  pride ; 
And  some  live  on  in  shadow ;  some  have  died; 
While  others  strive  with  hand  and  brain's  best  art 
To  calm  the  pulses  of  a  bleeding  heart, 
O'ermastering  the  pain.     And  they  grow  cold, 
So  shutting  out  the  pleasant  thoughts  of  old, 
And  walk  through  life  as  if  it  had  no  joy, 
And  pain  and  sorrow  were  its  sole  alloy. 

But  some  pure  souls  there  are,  to  whom  there  clings 
The  unseen  vesture  of  an  angel's  wings ; 
And  meekly,  with  bowed  hearts,  they  kiss  the  rod, 
And  own  it  as  a  message  sent  from  GOD. 
They  dwell  on  earth,  contented  and  resigned ; 
The* cloud  for  them  is  with  pale  silver  lined ; 
They  take  their  lonely  lot,  as  reconciled, 
With  the  meek  spirit  of  a  patient  child. 

These  make  earth  beautiful  to  other  eyes ; 
These  steal  the  shadow  from  the  darkest  skies ; 
And  with  souls,  patient,  holy,  pure,  and  meek, 
They  aid  the  erring,  and  uphold  the  weak. 
Some  day,  a  place  is  vacant  at  the  hearth, 
A  voice  of  music  has  died  from  the  earth, 
A  silence  lieth  on  the  path  they  trod,  — 
The  pure  and  patient  have  gone  up  to  GOD. 


HOLY  Father,  Source  of  Light ! 

Humbly  do  thy  saints  adore  thee ; 
Heaven  and  earth,  and  day  and  night, 

As  thy  creatures  bow  before  thee  ; 
And  we,  also,  things  of  clay, 
Sing  thy  glorious  praise  alway. 

For  the  blessing  of  the  light, 
Daily  to  our  labor  leading; 
For  the  darkness  and  the  night, 


232      "/  GO   THE    WAY  OF  ALL    THE   EARTH." 

Giving  rest  that  we  are  needing ; 
Hear  our  ceaseless  songs  of  praise, 
Sounding  till  the  end  of  days. 

For  the  Gift  above  all  price, 
From  thy  right  hand  once  descending, 

For  the  stainless  Sacrifice, 

Offered  once,  yet  never-ending ; 

Lo !  our  morning  song  shall  rise ! 

Lo !  our  evening  sacrifice  1 


BY  Thy  many  sorrows  keep 
Loving  watch  o'er  all  who  weep, 
Giving  thy  beloved  sleep ; 

Christe  eleison. 
By  thine  agony  of  tears, 
Swelled  by  human  griefs  and  fears, 
And  the  sin  of  all  the  years ; 

Christe  eleison. 

By  thy  cross,  so  meekly  borne, 
By  thy  mocking  crown  of  thorn, 
On  thee  pressed  by  hands  of  scorn ; 

Christe  eleison. 
By  thy  life,  so  full  of  sighs, 
Yielded  up  in  agonies, 
By  thine  awful  sacrifice ; 

Christe  eleison. 

By  thy  Love,  that  all  could  give, 
By  thy  Death  that  we  might  live, 
In  thy  rising  to  revive ; 

Christe  eleison. 


"  E  p  fyt  OTag  0f  all  tje 

THE  golden  day  is  past ;  the  night  hath  come. 
Still  on  the  western  hills  the  soft  light  shines 
Caught  from  the  sinking  sun ;  but  in  the  east 
The  shadows  gather,  and  the  stars  come  out 
To  light  the  earth.    There  is  no  moon  to-night. 
The  day  is  past ;  and  I,  with  lingering  feet, 


11 1  GO    THE    WAY    OF  ALL    THE   EARTH."      233 

And  slow,  must  "  go  the  way  of  all  the  earth." 

I  shall  not  see  the  morning  sun  arise 

O'er  the  blue  hills  that  I  have  loved  so  long ! 

No  more  the  ripple  of  the  sunny  wave, 

Nor  plash  of  waters  on  a  rock-strewn  shore, 

Shall  break  in  music  on  the  calm  and  hush 

Of  some  fair  eve  of  summer.    Ears  of  dust 

Hear  nothing  of  all  this.    Are  deaf,  also, 

Unto  the  sweetest  music  of  all  life ; 

The  voice  of  our  beloved.    I  shall  not  hear 

That  music  any  more.    Until  the  day 

When  earth  and  sea  shall  render  up  their  dead 

I  shall  not  see  his  face.    Between  us  lies 

A  gulf  so  wide,  that  even  when  I  die 

He  cannot  come  to  me ! 

How  the  stars  shine  ! 

So  will  they  shine,  some  night,  upon  my  grave ; 
And  I,  in  my  dark  home,  shall  nothing  see 
Of  all  their  beauty !    In  that  quiet  grave 
There  shall  be  peace,  unutterable  peace, 
O'er  which  those  shining  stars,  as  sentinels, 
Keep  holy  watch  and  ward.    These  wasted  hands, 
Their  work  all  done,  lie  still  and  folded  there. 
Clasping  so  close  the  cross.    These  weary  feet, 
Through  all  my  life  led  o'er  so  many  graves, 
End  all  their  toiling  there.    This  throbbing  heart, 
Grown  cold,  and  very  still,  shall  beat  no  more 
In  pleasure  or  in  pain ;  yea,  know  no  more 
The  dreary  void,  the  want  unsatisfied, 
That  touched  its  pulses  to  such  bitter  pain 
In  the  old  days  of  earth. 

I  go  the  way 

That  all  of  earth  must  go.     The  waters  rise 
Above  my  footsteps ;  and  the  icy  wave 
Mounts  upward  to  my  heart.     I  pass  alone,  fe 

Yet  not  alone,  across  the  river  dark; 
Upheld  by  One  who  beareth  me  above 
The  else  engulfing  stream.    HE  treads  the  wave 
Conquering,  and  to  conquer.    I  but  lean 
Keliant  on  the  Hand  so  strong  to  save. 
I  know  that  underneath  me  are  the  "  Arms," 
The  "  Everlasting  Arms."    I  know  that  he 
Will  never  leave,  nor  yet  forsake  his  own ; 

"I  KNOW  THAT  MY  KEDEEMER  LIVETH  !  " 


234  "  LET  NOT  THE  SUN 


it  gfjall  fce 

O  MOURNER  by  a  vacant  hearth, 

Whereon  the  shadow  lieth  yet ; 
Thou  that  hast  given  unto  earth 

The  shape  that  haunts  thee  in  regret, 
Look  up  and  smile.     Beyond  the  skies, 

Beyond  the  darkness  and  the  night, 
The  home  of  thy  beloved  lies. 

"  At  eventide  it  shall  be  light." 

O  weary,  worn,  and  breaking  heart, 

That  seest  all  thy  hopes  go  down 
Quick  unto  death,  and  so  depart, 

Know  thou  skies  will  not  alway  frown. 
Though  dark  and  dreary  dawns  the  day, 

A  pallid  phantom  of  the  night, 
And  all  the  sunshine  hides  away ; 

"  At  eventide  it  shall  be  light." 

O  thou  that  journeyest  through  the  vale, 

Where  shadows  gather,  deep  and  long; 
Where  feet  must  falter,  high  heart  fail,  — 

Look  up  and  onward !     Be  thou  strong ! 
Those  shadows  all  shall  pass  away, 

Forgotten  in  the  glory  bright 
Of  GOD'S  own  everlasting  day. 

"At  eventide  it  shall  be  light." 


"  2Ut  not  tfje  Sun  go  fcofcm  upon  gour  OTratfj." 

QUARRELS  are  bitter  things.    They  take  the  bloom 
From  off  our  lives.     They  brush  the  tender  dew 
With  all  its  sparkling  freshness  from  our  path, 
And  in  its  stead  waters  of  Marah  flow. 
We  cannot  heal  that  stream !     Our  mortal  hands 
Are  not  so  stainless,  nor  our  hearts  so  pure, 
As  with  a  touch  to  sweeten  the  dark  wave, 
And  it  flows  on,  to  color  all  our  lives 
With  saddest  memories.    Perchance,  to  change 
The  very  current  of  our  heart's  best  blood 
Into  most  bitter  gall. 

We  often  hear 
"  Let  not  the  sun  go  down  upon  your  wrath." 


235 


Who  heedeth  ?    For  daily  it  doth  go  down, 
To  rise  and  set  again,  and  yet  it  finds 
Our  anger  burning  still !    Alas !  the  spark 
A  little  word  hath  kindled,  flames  and  burns, 
A  fierce,  unquenchable  fire.     We  have  lit, 
With  thoughtless  fingers  as  unthinking  heart, 
The  torch  that  may  not  die  until  that  heart 
Hath  burned  into  dust,  or  ashes  lie 
Upon  the  folded  hands ! 

Perchance  the  years, 
That  still  all  human  pulses  unto  peace, 
May  quench  the  anger  that  once  burned  therein ; 
But  the  dead  flame  hath  left  its  ashes  there ; 
And  life  hath  bitterness  at  its  very  source, 
Tainting  the  stream  itself,  till  wrath  and  life 
Alike  have  passed  away. 

Have  passed  away  ? 

Oh !  never !  never !     That  poor  life  may  fade 
And  perish  from  the  earth.     The  wrath  remains ; 
The  bitter  heritage  of  an  evil  hour 
Left  to  our  children,  on  whose  lives  it  lies 
A  cloud  forever ;  and  our  sin  hath  left 
Its  fatal  impress  on  the  young,  pure  hearts 
We  should  have  led  to  heaven ! 

We  are  weak ; 

Too  prone  to  quarrel  with  our  brother's  words ; 
Too  quick  to  take  offence  was  never  meant ; 
Too  hasty  in  our  wrath.     And  what  are  we, 
Who  dare  to  entertain  an  evil  guest, 
Shutting  the  angel  out  ?    Are  we  so  pure, 
That  with  unwashen  hands  we  may  touch  pitch 
And  yet  be  undcflled?     So  sinless,  too, 
That  never  need  of  GOD'S  forgiveness 
Makes  us  forgive  our  brother?    It  is  well, 
If  laying  hands  upon  a  quiet  heart, 
We  plead  "  not  guilty,"  and  our  conscience  smiles ; 
But  doth  it  smile,  when  on  our  puny  wrath 
The  evening  sun  goes  down  ? 

O  Father,  hear ! 

O  thou  most  holy,  keep  us  free  from  sin. 
Guard  thou  our  lips  from  wrath ;  and  guide  our  souls 
Into  the  way  of  peace.     The  lowly  path 
Trodden  of  old  by  Him  who  took  our  lot 
So  meekly  on  him —  who  was  ever  found 
The  pure  and  undefiled  —  the  Prince  of  Peace  — 
The  Holy  One  of  Israel,  and  our  God ! 


236  REST. 


I  AM  weary  of  this  toil ! 

It  is  wearing  heart  and  brain ; 
And  I  long  for  childhood's  frolic  mirth, 

And  its  old  sweet  laugh  again. 
But  I  know  they  cannot  come, 

For  I  lost  them  long  ago ; 
With  the  merry  days,  and  the  dear  old  home, 

That  are  cold  beneath  the  snow. 

I  am  weary  of  this  toil ! 

And  I  long  for  rest  and  peace ; 
But  I  may  not  hope  for  such  blessings  sweet, 

Till  life's  bitter  strugglings  cease. 
Rest  for  the  weary,  rest! 

But  the  boon  may  not  be  given 
Till  hands  lie  folded  on  the  breast, 

And  the  soul  hath  gone  to  heaven. 


WHY  do  we  toil  for  that  which  bringeth  care 
And  little  pleasure,  and  which  doth  but  wear 
Our  very  life  away  ?    Why  do  we  toil  — 
Amid  such  stirring  strife,  such  endless  moil  — 
For  shadows,  fading  when  we  deem  them  ours, 
And  fleeting  with  the  evanescent  hours  ? 
O  idle  questioning !     As  if  souls  bent 
On  gaining  some  one  goal  could  rest  content 
With  folded  hands,  and  see  the  world  rush  on, 
While  others  win  the  prize  they  might  have  won ! 
Bather  the  toil,  the  rack  of  brain  and  mind, 
Than  in  the  world's  race  to  be  left  behind ! 
Onward !  the  restless  soul's  incessant  cry,  — 
Onward !  and  silenced  only  when  we  die ! 

We  dream  of  rest.    We  picture  some  fair  scene 
Bright  with  the  wealth  of  summer's  golden  sheen. 
A  lake,  serene,  doth  glass  the  glorious  sky ; 
O'er  bluest  hill-tops,  rosy  cloudlets  fly ; 
And  we,  our  days  of  toil  all  passed  away, 
Lie  idly  watching  the  departing  day. 
A  sense  of  pleasure  stealeth  through  our  veins, 
Unknown  amid  our  former  cares  and  pains. 


"REMEMBER    THY   CREATOR."  237 

A  gentle  languor  seems  to  float  from  out 
The  ambient  air,  and  curtain  us  about; 
And  we  lie  down  on  roses  fresh  and  sweet, 
With  but  one  thought :  "  This  is  most  exquisite !  " 

We  dream,  and  wake.    Ah!  life  doth  seem  so  bare; 
Its  frosts  seem  chilling  all  the  summer  air. 
Clouds  gather  darkly  o'er  the  enchanting  scene, 
And  we  are  moaning  o'er  what  might  have  been ! 

We  dream  of  rest ;  but  we  are  deaf,  the  while, 
Unto  the  voice  from  out  eternity, 
Whispering  to  the  soul,  "  Come  unto  Me, 
All  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden, 
And  /will  refresh  you ;  /  will  give  rest 
Unto  your  souls."    And  for  this  promised  rest 
None  ever  seek  in  vain.     It  is  GOD'S  rest ; 
For  "so  he  giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 


"  Eememte  tijg  Creator  in  tjje  3Bagg  of  tfjg  goutij." 

Now  in  thy  youth  remember  Him 

Who  "  holdeth  thy  soul  in  life ;  " 
Who  stayeth  thy  feet  from  wandering 

In  paths  that  with  death  are  rife ; 
And  GOD  will  hear  thee ;  be  thy  stay 
Through  all  thine  earthly  way. 

Life's  spring  is  dawning.     Summer  waits 
With  wealth  of  flowers,  rich  and  fair; 

And  autumn  opes  its  golden  gates, 
And  shows  its  fruitage,  ripe  and  rare,  — 

For  all  these  blessings,  give  thou  praise 
To  Him  who  guards  thy  ways. 

Spring —  summer  —  autumn  —  winter,  too, 
May  crown  thy  little  term  of  years. 

GOD  will  lead  thee  thy  journey  through, 
Guard  all  thy  joys,  keep  all  thy  tears, 

If  only  thou  give  him  thy  heart, 
Choosing  the  better  part. 

And,  if  in  youth  thou  pass  away, 
Or  in  'mid  age  lie  down  to  rest, 
Fear  not  the  darkness  of  that  day 


238  THE    CROWN-SEEKERS. 

When  hands  lie  folded  on  the  breast. 
The  GOD  thoii  servest  will  give  light 
That  shineth  through  the  night. 

Fear  not  the  trials  life  may  bring ; 

GOD  sends  them  but  to  prove  thy  trust ! 
Fear  not  life's  sorrows.     Thou  shalt  sing 

The  triumphs  of  the  good  and  just. 
Who  walketh  in  GOD'S  ways  shall  see 
Life  in  Eternity. 


Eire* ! 

TIRED  !    It  is  but  a  little  word, 

A  sound  of  daily  life ; 
But  under  it  floweth  a  current  deep, 

With  a  thousand  meanings  rife. 

Tired !    Ay ;  weary  of  toil  and  care, 

That  will  not  let  us  rest ; 
Thinking  how  sweet  the  long  sleep  must  be, 

Under  the  earth's  green  breast. 

Tired !     It  may  be  of  waiting  long,  — 

Of  having  hopes  deferred; 
Of  feeling  aye  how  all  of  life 

Was  blighted  by  a  word. 

Tired !    Under  that  curtain  may  lie 

A  pain  too  deep  for  words  : 
A  torture,  straining  sharp  and  fierce, 

On  all  the  poor  heart's  chords. 

Tired !    Utter  it  soft  and  low, 

It  holds  its  secrets  well ; 
For  few  would  dream  what  a  tale  of  pain 

That  little  word  might  tell. 


BEHOLD  !  we  seek  a  crown, 
Not  worn  by  brows  of  earth; 

Not  fading  with  our  dying  selves, 
But  of  immortal  worth. 


CEOSS   AND   CROWN.  239 

No  gems  from  Eastern  mines  shall  deck 
The  crown  of  glory  we  would  have ; 

Bat  from  it  stream  rays,  burning,  bright, 
That  light  the  darkness  of  the  grave. 

Behold !  we  seek  a  crown, 

Now,  in  our  morn  of  life ; 
With  GOD'S  dew  lying  on  our  brows, 

We  enter  on  the  strife. 
The  way  lies  straight  before  us  now ; 

We  tread  it  with  unweary  feet ; 

A  crown  awaits  us,  and  we  know 

That  after  labor,  rest  is  sweet. 

Behold  we  seek  a  crown  ! 

And,  though  the  way  be  long, 
We  are  armed  as  GOD'S  children  are, 

And  in  his  strength  are  strong. 
Though  life  bring  to  us  thorn  and  cross, 

And  its  wild  strife  be  hard  and  dure ; 
Who  bears  the  cross  shall  find  no  loss, 
But  win  a  golden  crown  and  pure. 


antJ 

THE  Cross  is  ours ; 

Through  all  our  life  its  shadow  lies  on  us. 
Through  all  our  life  ?    Nay;  scarcely  so.     Methinks, 
The  baby  brows,  whereon  GOD'S  signet  shines, 
Know  nothing  of  the  shadow.     In  their  hearts, 
The  seeds  of  evil,  yet  ungerminate, 
May  never  spring  to  life ;  for  GOD  may  take 
The  little  children  home,  and  they  may  wear 
The  golden  crown,  the  thorny  cross  unfelt. 
But  we,  who  linger  out  a  longer  life, 
Shall  know,  for  certain,  where  the  shadow  lies. 
Nay,  more ;  may  see  it  lengthen  to  our  feet, 
As  further  from  th'  uplifted  cross  we  rove. 
The  evil  seeds  within  oar  hearts  shall  find 
A  bitter  time  to  germ.    And  evil  thoughts 
Shall  throng  all  avenues  of  inner  life, 
As  infusoria  fill  each  tiny  drop 
Of  the  sweet,  sparkling  fount  we  thought  so  pure. 
Unto  the  last  we  wander  from  the  road ; 
And  still  the  shadow  of  the  distant  Cross 
Creeps  to  our  straying  feet,  as  though  to  lead 


240  "GOOD  GRACIOUS!" 

The  rebel  soldiers  back.    'Tis  but  to  turn 
Our  wandering  feet  into  that  shadow's  path, 
And,  taking  up  the  Cross,  shut  from  our  lives 
Its  shadow  evermore.     GOD'S  love  is  strong, 
Enduring,  and  most  patient ;  but  the  grave, 
That  shutteth  us  from  earth,  shuts  out  the  Hand 
That  mighty  is  to  save. 

Who  bear  the  Cross 

Shall  wear  the  Crown.     GOD  shall  give  unto  them 
A  crown  of  beauty,  —  an  immortal  crown, 
Whereon  the  rust  and  tarnish  of  this  world 
Shall  never  more  be  lying.     Bright  and  pure 
Shall  be  the  circlet  ringing  holy  brows ; 
So  not  unmeet,  in  adoration  deep, 
At  GOD'S  own  feet  to  lie ! 


"  —  2U  C.  (g, 

A  LITTLE  child  was  listening,  open-eyed, 
While  I,  for  her  sweet  pleasure,  read  a  tale 
From  some  old  story-book.    I  mind  it  well. 
It  told  of  lassies  twain  who  went,  one  day, 
Wandering,  side  by  side,  beyond  the  stream. 
The  one  the  miller's  daughter ;  the  other,  — 
I  do  forget,  — but  they  were  closest  friends, 
And  ever  mated  at  their  sports  and  school. 
They  had  free  license  wheresoe'er  they  would 
To  wander  in  their  walks ;  only  the  bridge 
Below  the  mill  was  interdicted  them. 
They  might  not  cross  at  peril  of  their  lives. 

Slowly  the  children  wandered  to  and  fro, 
Plucking  the  flowers  on  either  side  the  path 
That  led  adown  the  stream.    They  came,  at  last, 
To  where  the  old  bridge  trembled  o'er  the  roar 
Of  falling  waters;  for  the  mill-stream  now 
Was  at  its  time  of  flood.     On  the  far  shore 
The  miller's  lass  espied  some  crimson  bells, 
And  eagerly  set  foot  upon  the  bridge. 
The  other  spake  :  "  You  know  we  must  not  cross. "- 
"But  I  will  go,"  the  miller's  lass  replied, 
And  went  unto  her  death.    The  old  plank  broke, 
Splintered  in  the  midst,  and  the  poor  child  fell 
On  the  rough  rocks  below. 

So  sad  a  death 
Sore  grieved  her  parents ;  but  they  wept  the  more, 


241 


Because  their  child  had  disobedient  been, 
And  in  her  sin  had  perished. 

"  Good  gracious!" 

Broke  sudden  forth  from  little  Lily's  lips, 
Sole  commentary  on  the  tale  I'd  told; 
And  the  child's  eyes  grew  rounder  and  more  bright. 

I  thought  not  then  that  she  would  never  hear 
That  old-time  tale  again !     How  could  I  know 
That  but  the  passing  of  some  briefest  days, 
And  "  dust  to  dust  "  was  spoken  o'er  her  grave, 
And  mine  the  voice  that  spake ! 


t'0  far  Spent  ;  tjje  Sag  is  at 
xtit.  12. 


WHAT  !  dallying  yet?    Life  is,  at  its  best, 
A  shadow  passing  by.     A  wreath  of  foam, 
Swept  downward  to  the  sea  that  buries  all; 
We  cannot  stay  its  course.     Our  puny  hand, 
Though  armed  as  that  which  trained  the  lightning  flash 
As  man's  obedient  slave,  cannot  arrest 
The  deathward  flow  of  life  ;  nor  chain  one  soul 
A  willing  prisoner  in  its  walls  of  flesh. 
To  master  these  our  skill  is  powerless; 
Aud  yet  we  dally,  most  unwise  in  heart, 
O'er  time  that  will  not  tarry  for  the  prajrer 
Breaking  from  dying  lips,  all  answerless; 
And  dally  with  our  duty  to  our  GOD! 

Awake  !  awake  !  put  we  our  armor  on  ! 
Why  do  we  sleep,  when  all  sin's  armed  hosts 
Are  thundering  at  our  gates  ?    Or  while,  more  dread, 
Its  slow,  insidious  coils  around  our  hearts 
Are  winding  deathfully  ? 

Still  dallying? 

Know  we,  that  he  who  slumbers  at  his  post 
Is  playing  'gainst  his  soul  such  fearful  odds, 
That  Satan  smiles  triumphant  on  the  game 
He  feeleth  sure  to  win  ! 

The  past  is  past. 

The  present  hour  is  ours,  so  guard  we  it, 
And  early  consecrate  our  every  power 
Unto  the  GOD  that  made  us  what  we  are. 
His  yoke  is  easy,  and  his  burden  light  ; 
And  with  a  strong  and  everlasting  Love 
He  keepeth  all  his  own.     From  cradle-sleep, 
16 


242  u  FADING. 

Until  the  last  of  earth,  his  care  shall  be 

About  our  daily  paths ;  and  through  the  night, 

The  Builder  of  the  everlasting  hills 

Doth  watch  above  us  keep.     No  human  love  — 

Though  living  through  neglect  and  daily  scorn, 

Made  stronger  by  the  grave  —  but  fades  and  dies, 

If  but  within  the  shadow  of  his  Love 

Its  feeble  light  dare  shine  !     No  child  of  dust 

Hath  yet  redeemed  his  brother  at  the  cost 

Of  life  or  soul;  nor  of  himself  hath  wrought 

His  own  salvation  out.     We,  born  of  earth, 

Can  frame  no  scheme  to  save  the  soul  that  dies 

Beneath  the  curse  of  sin.     Only  GOD'S  grace 

Could  shape  the  glorious  plan  !     Only  GOD'S  love 

Endure  the  Cross  to  save ! 

We  know  all  this ; 

Are  taught  the  lesson  while  upon  our  brows 
Baptismal  dews  are  lying  fresh  and  cool. 
Yet  all  too  oft  the  lesson  is  forgot ; 
And  blind,  and  deaf,  we  turn  us  from  the  Love 
That  fain  would  shield  and  save.     Alas  !  the  world 
Hath  snares  too  ready  for  unwary  feet  -, 
And  we  are  wooed,  from  out  the  narrow  path, 
By  shapes  of  beauty  that  allure  to  sin. 
Too  easily  we  yield  to  earth's  delights ; 
And,  swift  of  foot,  press  onward  in  the  race 
Whose  goal  we  dream  not  may  be  only  hell ! 


WE  have  sweet  dreams, 

Some  sunny  hopes,  some  bright  and  smiling  joys, 
That  we  set  up  as  idols  in  our  hearts ; 
But  Father  Time  —  that  great  iconoclast  — 
Hath  never  sparing  hand,  and  at  his  touch 
All  earthly  shapes  do  crumble  into  dust. 
What  careth  he  for  beauty,  or  for  pride? 
The  flrst  is  but  a  flower,  fragile,  fair, 
Blooming  to  perish  when  the  first  frosts  fall. 
The  other,  as  some  stately  forest-tree 
Struck  down  by  lightning  in  its  hour  of  noon, 
Withered  and  blasted  quite,  shall  be  itself 
The  only  monument  of  what  hath  been,  — 
The  "  whited  sepulchre." 


THE    COMING    OF  THE   SPRING.  243 

As  that  Locust,*  known 
In  Trans- Atlantic  wilds,  with  wings  of  rose 
And  thigh  of  emerald,  eludes  the  eye,  — 
Seen  for  a  moment  on  the  bending  leaf; 
But,  would  you  grasp  it,  straight  evanishes, 
And,  lost  in  space,  no  more  may  greet  your  search,  — 
So,  joys  of  earth,  that,  untouched,  seem  so  fair, 
Are  shadows  in  our  grasp.     Locust-like,  also, 
For  that  the  beauty  wedded  unto  life 
Is  seen  not  in  the  brown  and  dusty  death 
Tinting  the  insect  like  the  withered  leaves 
Of  golden  autumn. 


Qfyt  Coming  of  tfje 

OUT  in  the  sunshine,  warm  and  sweet, 
Soundeth  the  patter  of  little  feet; 
Merriest  voices  of  childhood  greet 

The  coming  of  the  Spring. 

To  and  fro,  in  the  balmy  breeze, 
Swing  the  tassel-blooms  of  the  alder-trees ; 
And  the  maple  flings  its  ensigns  out, 
Crimson  and  gold,  to  hail,  no  doubt, 

The  coming  of  the  Spring. 

Under  the  eaves  of  the  rocks  so  old, 
The  fern-leaves  burst  from  their  coiling  fold, 
To  crown  the  stone  with  their  soft  caress, 
Clothing  it  with  beauty  and  gracefulness  ; 
While  down  in  the  valley,  and  under  the  hill, 
The  brook  it  is  singing,  with  right  good  will, 
The  coming  of  the  Spring. 

Through  the  dead  leaves  on  the  island-shore, 
The  squirrel-cups  raise  their  heads  once  more ; 
And,  down  by  the  brookside,  the  crocus  pale 
To  the  sparkling  water  is  telling  its  tale 

Of  the  coming  of  the  Spring. 

Down  in  the  valley  and  under  the  hill, 
The  violets  gather,  so  softly  and  still ; 
Blue,  and  purple,  and  yellow,  and  white ; 
Smiling  to  greet,  in  the  sun's  warm  light, 

The  coming  of  the  Spring. 

*  Locusto  Transullo ;  found  near  the  Rock7  Mountains. 


244  THE   DYING  MISSIONARY. 

Under  our  footsteps,  as  onward  we  pass, 
Lies  the  fragrant  green  of  the  vernal  grass ; 
While  over  our  heads  shines  the  sky  so  blue ; 
Shining  down,  as  to  greet  with  its  own  bright  hue 

The  coming  of  the  Spring. 
A  Souvenir  of  Easter-Eve,  1865. 


sing  fftfesfonarg. 

YEARS  ago  I  crossed  the  ocean,  — 

Years  ago  I  left  my  home ; 
Summer  sunshine  was  upon  it,  — 

Sunshine,  too,  on  ocean's  foam. 
Light  and  free  the  heart  whose  throbbings 

Were  not  then  akin  to  pain ; 
Lighter  still  the  joyous  footsteps, 

Ne'er  to  be  so  light  again. 

Years  ago !    Ah !    Time  hath  gathered 

All  my  life  into  his  store ; 
Nought  is  left  me  but  the  record 

I  shall  need  not  any  more. 
Dust  is  lying  on  the  pages 

Once  so  white  and  fair  to  see ; 
And,  to-morrow,  dust  and  ashes 

Will  be  all  that's  left  of  me. 

What  have  I  to  carry  with  me 

To  the  far  and  Silent  Land? 
There's  no  wealth  of  lifelong  earning, 

There's  no  treasure  in  my  hand. 
Naked  on  this  world  I  entered,  — 

Naked  from  it  I  must  go ; 
But  the  grace  of  GOD  hath  clothed  me,  — 

Clothed  me  even  here  below. 

Years  ago  I  crossed  the  ocean 

To  a  wild  and  heathen  shore ; 
Went,  as  priest,  unto  a  people 

I  had  never  known  before. 
How  I  strove  and  how  I  labored, 

This  I  care  not  now  to  tell ; 
But  I  made  my  people  love  me,  — 

Made  my  people  love  me  well. 

Ah  !  the  old  familiar  landscape,  — 
Miles  on  miles  of  ocean- waves, 


THE   DYING   MISSIONARY.  245 

Seen  through  palm-trees  gently  waving 

O'er  a  few  cross-bannered  graves. 
Far  away  the  blue  hills  slumbered 

In  the  golden  blaze  of  day. 
At  my  feet  the  people  gathered, 

Eager  all  to  learn  the  Way. 

Ah !  I  see  the  dusky  faces, 

In  the  sunlight  all  aglow, 
As  I  told  the  old,  sweet  story, 

Old  a  thousand  years  ago ! 
Mothers  pressed  their  children  closer,  — 

Fathers,  turning,  smiled  on  them, 
As  they  listened  to  the  story 

Of  the  Child  of  Bethlehem. 

Years  ago !    Ah !  all  who  listened 

Then,  have  passed  from  earth  away; 
Gone  before  me  through  the  portals 

Of  the  Everlasting  Day. 
Others  sit  where  they  were  sitting,  — 

Others  sing  the  same  sweet  song ; 
But  the  old  familiar  faces 

Are  not  seen  the  new  among. 

Children,  on  whose  brows  I  scattered 

Holy  dews  so  pure  and  sweet, 
Sleep  beneath  the  waving  palm-trees, 

Where  the  light  and  shadow  meet. 
They  went  from  us  in  their  promise 

Of  a  morning  fair  to  see ; 
Went  —  to  be  forever  children, 

Through  the  long  eternity ! 

When  the  light  of  earth  departeth, 

And  returneth  nevermore, 
I  shall  see  them  —  I  shall  meet  them, 

On  the  bright  and  golden  shore. 
Hush !    I  see  the  palm-trees  waving,  — 

Hear  the  ripple  on  the  shore ; 
And  the  voices  of  the  children 

Singing,  —  singing,  —  "  Evermore ! " 


246          THE  DATS  THAT  WERE. 


JSags  tijat  OTere. 

AH  !  they  thought  I  had  long  forgotten 

Every  haunt  of  my  childhood's  day ; 
Thought  that  remembrance  of  all  things  olden 

Had,  with  my  youth-time,  passed  away. 
But,  clearer  and  sharper  than  later  mornings, 

Rises  the  shape  of  the  days  that  were. 
Warm  and  sunny,  —  all  sparkling  and  golden, 

Shine  the  days  that  are  ever  fair. 

Down  by  the  shore  of  the  grand  old  river,  — 

Rocks  and  beach  are  before  me  now, 
Where  I  have  played  with  the  shining  pebbles, 

And  bathed  in  the  water  my  heated  brow. 
O'er  the  old  rocks,  so  slimy  and  slippery, 

Black  and  bare,  when  the  tide  was  low, 
Oft  I  have  bounded  with  feet  so  fearless. 

I  would  not  dare  to  tread  them  now  1 

Out  in  the  woods  there  are  quiet  corners,  — 

Stilly  haunts  where  I  loved  to  go ; 
Gathering  flowers  with  busiest  fingers, 

Keeping  time  with  the  brooklet's  flow. 
Purple  violets  out  of  the  grasses, 

Crocus  pale  from  the  streamlet's  side, 
And  basket,  full  of  the  varied  mosses, 

Brought  I  home  at  the  eventide. 

Many  a  time  have  I  curled  into  ringlets 

The  dandelion's  hollow  stem ; 
Or  blown  its  seeds  into  airy  vagrance, 

And  laughed  in  my  glee,  as  I  followed  them ; 
Racing  to  keep  the  poor  things  from  falling, 

Or  wafting  them  hastily  up  in  some  tree. 
Bubbles  that  burst  in  their  rainbow  splendor, 

Were  not  so  bright  nor  so  fair  to  me ! 

Oft  in  the  heighth  and  the  heat  of  summer 

Have  I  laid  me  down  in  the  grasses  deep ; 
Watching  the  butterflies  float  above  me, 

Peering  into  some  aut's  sand-heap ; 
Wondering  much,  in  my  childish  fancy, 

How  these  same  ants  got  the  sand- grains  up. 
I  could  tumble  them  down  so  easily ; 

I  could  gather  them  in  a  cup. 


"LOVE  THAT  WAITETII"  247 

All  throug?i  June  I  had  plenty  of  rambling ; 

Strawberries  waited  in  valley,  on  hill ; 
And  little  fingers  were  plying  eagerly, 

Keeping  pace  with  the  feet  that  never  were  still. 
Soon  rosy- red  were  the  busy  fingers ; 

Lips  and  cheeks  were  not  unlike  them ; 
And  frock  and  pinafore,  each  were  telling 

What  fruit  did  grow  on  the  pale  green  stem. 

Many  a  time  hath  my  frock  been  tattered, 

Many  a  time  have  my  feet  been  wet, 
Seeking  for  black-caps  by  crooked  fences, 

Seeking  the  blackberry's  balls  of  jet. 
Little  I  cared  for  the  old  sun-bonnet, 

More  often  seen  on  shoulders  than  head ; 
Sometimes  forgotten  for  days  together. 

Nobody  scolded,  and  nothing  was  said. 

Later  still  in  the  autumn  breezes, 

I  was  out  in  the  woods  to  seek 
Chestnuts  guarded  by  wounding  prickles, 

Butternuts  browner  than  was  my  cheek. 
Little  I  heeded  the  wounding  prickles, 

And  less  the  brown  stains  on  my  hands. 
Happier  I  in  my  careless  freedom, 

Than  had  I  been  lady  o'er  many  lands ! 

•»       Later  years  have  brought  other  fancies,  — 

Later  years  have  brought  higher  dreams ; 
Yet  I  cling  to  my  childhood's  pastimes, 

And  they  are  not  forgotten  themes. 
Ah !  but  my  heart  must  have  ceased  its  throbbing, 

Have  done  with  weariness  and  with  pain, 
Ere  I  can  turn  me  from  memory's  glamour, 

And  not  dream  the  old  time  o'er  again ! 


"  SLofce  tfjat 

LOVE  that  waiteth,  —  who  shall  count  its  tears  ? 

Or  call  the  number  of  the  weary  years, 

That,  haunted  by  a  sense  of  coming  ill, 

Did  find  it  waiting,  —  left  it  waiting  still? 

I  saw  a  picture  once.    It  had  no  name. 

The  artist  hand  that  traced  it  left  to  fame 

No  record  of  itself,  and  yet  its  touch 

Had  given  life  to  thought.    There  was  not  much 


248  "LOVE  THAT  WAITETH" 

To  please  a  passing  eye.    Not  very  fair 

The  pictured  face,  but  soul  was  written  there. 

A  brow,  nor  high,  nor  low,  where  faintly,  through 

The  smooth  white  skin,  were  shadowed  lines  of  blue. 

Dark  braids  of  hair,  full  carelessly  entwined, 

That  like  a  crown  her  shapely  head  did  bind ; 

And  lips  that  smiled,  —  a  wan  and  patient  smile, 

That  did  mine  eyes  of  some  sad  tears  beguile ; 

But  any  careless  gaze  might  note  these  things 

And,  passing  on,  forget  them.    Memory  brings 

Unto  my  heart,  the  meaning  of  the  eyes 

That,  lighted  by  still  patience,  to  the  skies 

Were  looking  evermore.     I  read  that  look 

As  if  it  had  been  written  in  a  book. 

Its  tender  trust,  and,  more  than  this,  —  the  deep 

And  holy  calm  of  patience  that  could  keep 

Its  lonely  vigil  through  a  life  of  years, 

Yet  faint  not,  weary  not,  through  hopes  and  fears, 

That,  as  they  were  of  daily  life  a  part, 

Did  wrestle  ever  in  that  faithful  heart. 

Daily  she  stilled  their  turmoil,  daily  swept 

All  thoughts  away,  save  one  she  ever  kept 

Shrined  in  her  heart  of  hearts.    A  quiet  thought 

Of  one  beloved,  who  in  far  countries  wrought 

A  bitter  labor  that  she  could  not  see 

As  a  captive  of  the  moor.    Destiny 

Of  which  she  did  not  dream.    As  in  an  urn 

Her  heart  did  keep  his  words :  "  I  shall  return ; " 

And,  with  a  quiet  trust  time  made  more  strong, 

She  waited;  and  the  years  passed,  weary,  long, 

Till,  at  the  last,  word  came  of  him  she  loved. 

How  he  had  suffered  much ;  how  he  had  proved 

The  bitterness  of  bondage,  and,  set  free, 

Did  seek  again  his  old  home  by  the  sea. 

He  came.     So  faint  and  weary,  sick  and  worn. 

Could  this  be  he,  who  left  her  that  bright  morn 

Of  the  old  time  when  both  were  young  and  fair, 

And  yet  stood  pale,  and  bent,  and  withered  there  ? 

Could  this  be  he,  so  changed?    Yet  her  true  heart 

Throbbed  to  his  footfall,  as,  no  more  to  part, 

The  loving  met.     Ay !  for  he,  too,  had  kept 

Her  image  sacred,  and  oft  tears  had  wept 

(Such  tears  as  man  may  weep)  o'er  her  sad  lot, — 

To  wait,  and  wait,  or  deem  her  love  forgot. 

Their  night  hath  caught  its  shadows  all  away ; 

The  morning  splendors  shine  upon  their  day. 

The  tale  is  told ;  the  picture  passed  away. 


"NOTHING."  249 


"  NOTHING,"  —  only  a  little  word, 

Falling  like  blight  on  a  woman's  heart; 

"  Nothing,"  —  only  a  shattered  chord, 
Whence  all  the  music  must  depart. 

"Nothing,"  —  spoken  in  idleness, 

Or  breathed  through  lips  that  are  whitening  fast ; 
"  Nothing,"  —  a  shadow  more  or  less, 

But  it  darkeneth  into  night  at  last. 

"  Nothing,"  —  echoes  of  childish  feet 

Die  into  silence  before  that  word ; 
"  Nothing,"  —  memories  pure  and  sweet 

Are  from  the  grave  of  long  years  stirred. 

"  Nothing,"  —  only  a  laugh  of  scorn, 

Stealing  the  love  from  some  human  soul ; 

"Nothing,"  —  yet  wrath  from  a  moment  born, 
Shapeth  clouds  o'er  a  century's  life  to  roll. 

"  Nothing,"  —  only  a  light  word  said, 

Tainting  the  faith  GOD  gave  to  the  soul ; 

"  Nothing,"  —  yet  hopeless  die  the  dead, 

And  that  soul  hath  wandered  from  its  goal. 

"  Nothing," — lightly  we  breathe  the  word, 

Idly  we  hear  it,  and  let  it  go ; 
But  a  thousand  streams  are  rudely  stirred, 
Though  only  a  passing  zephyr  blow. 

"Nothing,"  —  hereafter  we  give  account 
Of  each  idle  word,  each  careless  jest, 
To  meet  us  then  as  a  poisoned  fount, 
Or  as  arrow  lodged  in  some  loving  breast. 

"  Nothing,"  —  GOD  will  not  count  it  so ; 

Since  our  poor  heart  may  have  power  to  bring 
Nearer  the  day  when  our  tears  shall  not  flow,  — 
Nearer  the  everlasting  spring ! 


250  "  KEPT   THEM  IN  HER   HEAST. 


tfjem  in  fjer 

WE  all  do  keep  within  our  hearts 

A  something  valued  most : 
A  look,  a  tone,  a  treasured  word,  — 

Thoughts  of  the  loved  and  lost. 

And  highest  dreams,  and  holiest  hopes, 
The  world  nor  recks,  nor  knows, 

Find  in  the  heart's  own  silentness 
A  resting  and  repose. 

Close  sheltered  from  the  outer  world 
We  keep  that  hidden  shrine ; 

A  little  less  than  worshipping, 
A  thing  not  all  divine. 

Would  we  could  keep  that  altar  pure, 

Safe  guarded  from  all  sin, 
So  never  shape  with  evil  fraught 

Might  fatal  entrance  win ! 

But  ah !  the  avenues  of  life 

Are  full  of  deadly  foes ; 
Each  waiting  patient ;  for  the  gate 

Once  open,  in  it  goes. 

And,  like  a  stream  whose  slimy  tide 

O'er  some  fair  garden  flows, 
Tainting  the  lily's  whitest  bloom, 

The  glory  of  the  rose,  — 

So  to  the  heart's  most  secret  shrine 

Each  little  sin  doth  go, 
Polluting  all  its  holiness, 

Laying  its  blossoms  low ; 

Till  in  the  stead  of  pleasantness 
There's  nought  but  hollow  show; 

An  outside  fair  indeed  to  view, 
But  rottenness  below. 

Alas  !  for  all  the  goodly  things 
That  were  the  soul's  delight  1 

A  moment's  slumbering  at  our  post 
Hath  spoiled  their  beauty  quite. 


"  THE    QUIET  LIFE."  251 

We  were  not  watching  when  the  foe 

The  fatal  entrance  found ; 
Our  eyes  were  closed  in  careless  sleep ; 

Our  banners  on  the  ground. 

Yet  struggle  on,  beleaguered  heart, 

There  may  be  gain,  not  loss ; 
Death,  only,  closes  all  thy  strife, 

O  soldier  of  the  Cross ! 

And  not  unaided,  not  alone, 

Shalt  thou  in  battle  be ; 
For  He  is  ever  on  thy  side, 

Who  died  on  Calvary. 


"  Stye  <£uiet  ILife." 

So  they  talk  of  my  quiet  life ! 

I  say,  in  an  underbreath, 
That  they  nothing  know  of  the  care  and  strife, 

And  the  agony  beneath. 
Quiet?    As  pools  in  the  forest  are, — 

Dark,  and  sluggish,  and  slow; 
Whose  waters,  perchance,  reflect  a  star, 

But  a  dead  man  sleeps  below ! 

What  do  these  people  know  of  me? 

Only  the  outward  show. 
How  can  they  read  the  mystery 

Of  the  heart  that  beats  below? 
They  only  look  on  the  smiling  brow, 

And  the  busy  little  hand ; 
And  they  think  that  the  one  hath  work  eno', 

And  the  other  smiles  at  command. 

They  never  dream  that  the  work  is  done 

As  a  rest  for  the  heart  and  brain ; 
That  the  smile  on  the  patient  forehead  worn 

Is  a  mask  to  shut  in  the  pain ; 
A  mask  that  is  worn  throughout  the  day, 

To  be  flung  aside  at  night, 
When  the  watchful  eyes  are  all  away, 

And  the  shadows  conquer  light. 

Ah !  then  the  pain  I  have  quelled  so  long 
Fiudeth  its  time  of  flood, 


252  A  HOPE. 

And  rises  sudden,  and  swift,  and  strong, 

No  longer  to  be  withstood. 
And  I  bow  my  head  to  the  bitter  tide ; 

And  I  suffer  —  ah !  such  pain ! 
I  marvel  oft  that  I  have  not  died 

Ere  the  morning  shone  again. 

Still  they  talk  of  my  quiet  life, 

And  I  give  for  answer  back, 
That  men  have  slept  'mid  the  battle  strife, 

And  martyrs  on  the  rack. 
And  what  if  exhaustion  follow  pain, 

And  the  days  go  silently? 
I  know  that  the  night  will  bring  again 

That  deathless  agony. 

So  they  may  talk  of  my  quiet  life,  — 

I  say,  in  an  underbreath, 
That  they  nothing  know  of  the  care  and  strife, 

And  the  agony  beneath. 
Quiet?    As  pools  in  the  forests  are,  — 

Dark,  and  sluggish,  and  slow ; 
Whose  waters,  perchance,  reflect  a  star, 

But  a  dead  man  sleeps  below ! 


ON  what  frail  threads  we  mortals  hang  our  hopes ! 
No  spider's  web  half  so  attenuate. 
And  yet,  how  very  fair  these  same  hopes  are ; 
Outshining  far  the  tiny  drops  of  dew 
That  on  the  spider's  web  suspended  hang, 
To  sparkle  diamonded  by  the  morning  sun ! 
Ah !  hopes  so  fair,  what  mocking  imps  ye  are ! 
No  ignis  fatuus  lurking  in  the  swamps 
Doth  lead  th'  unwary  traveller  such  a  race, 
Ending  perchance  in  death,  as  ye  do  us. 
Wooed  by  the  rainbow  splendor  of  your  light, 
We  follow  where  you  lead,  unheeding  where ; 
Until  the  darkness  swallows  you,  and  we 
Are  left  unto  the  loneliness  and  night. 

Years  since  —  I  dare  not  count  how  many  times 
The  summer  roses  followed  winter's  snow  — 
A  hope  dawned  sweet  within  my  quiet  heart. 


A    HOPE.  253 

It  was  a  thing  of  April's  changeful  mood ; 
Too  near  the  earth  to  'scape  the  lot  of  earth,  — 
Half  shadow  and  half  sunshine,  —  yet  it  made 
Itself  the  world  to  me,  and  all  my  life 
Resolved  into  itself.     Variableness 
Did  seem  its  essence ;  and,  Proteus-like, 
It  made  all  shapes  its  own ;  endowed  all  thoughts 
With  something  of  itself,  until  my  life 
Was  but  a  reflex  of  that  one  fair  hope. 

This  hope  did  reign  most  royally ;  kept  rare  state ; 
All  other  hopes  its  loving  subjects  were ; 
While  every  thought  and  feeling  owned  its  sway, 
Its  "lawful  rule  and  right  supremacy." 
Its  reign  was  absolute  by  day  and  night ; 
Each  hour  did  render  its  sweet  homage  up, 
And  all  my  world  was  lying  at  its  feet. 

This  hope  did  grow  a  giant,  brave  and  strong, 
That  let  no  meaner  shadow  creep  within 
The  compass  of  its  own,  but  filled  all  space. 
No  other  hope,  that  sought  in  hardihood 
To  hold  its  own,  but  rued  its  rashness  soon 
In  dull  annihilation,  or  was  wrapt 
Into  that  kingly  hope,  and  lost  itself 
Amid  commingling  atoms.    All  thoughts  bent, 
By  rare  attraction  driven,  unto  it ; 
And  little  things  grew  mighty  when  they  came 
Within  the  circle  of  its  broad  domain. 

This  hope  was  fair.    More  fair  than  any  dream 
The  poets  ever  fabled.     Summer  gave 
Its  glory  of  the  morning  unto  it ; 
All  phases  of  the  seasons  cherished  it; 
The  gleaming  waters  and  the  changing  sky 
Did  glass  its  beauty.     Yea,  all  nature  seemed 
The  lovelier  for  the  hope  that  brightened  it. 

This  hope  was  patient ;  for  the  long  years  went, 
And  brought  it  nothing  for  the  wealth  it  gave. 
Yet  burned  it  on,  as  yonder  planet  burns ; 
Its  light  unquenched,  though  cloud  and  tempest  shut 
The  shining  glory  out ! 

This  hope  so  sweet 

Had  borne  the  brunt  of  many  a  fierce  fight, 
And  walked  the  battle-field  victorious. 
Yea ;  it  had  looked  on  tears  that,  when  they  fell, 
Seemed  blood-drops  from  the  heart ;  and  heard  such  moans 


254  THE   BLUEBIRD. 

As  seem  a  part  of  death,  they  torture  so. 
This  hope  so  fair,  so  changeless,  and  so  true, 
Hath  died  a  thousand  deaths,  yea;  lain  in  graves 
O'er  which  methought  no  resurrection  dawned ; 
Yet  ere  that  thought  could  shape  itself  in  words, 
The  living  hope  smiled  on  me  as  of  old  — 
As  now  —  as  ever! 

Only  when  I  die 

This  one  hope  dieth  too.    Let  "  dust  to  dust " 
Be  spoken  over  me,  and  in  my  heart, 
Its  home  no  more,  this  hope  shall  find  its  grave. 
I  dare  not  say  that  in  the  other  world 
It  hath  a  resurrection ! 


5Hje  Bluebirti. 

HEARD  ye  the  bluebird  sing? 
There's  promise  of  the  spring 

In  every  song  she  singeth. 
Clear,  sweet,  and  musical, 
Upon  mine  ear  they  fall, 

And  memories  glad  each  bringeth. 

The  winter's  snow  lies  still 
On  every  slope  and  hill, 

Pure  in  its  virgin  whiteness ; 
While  on  the  river's  breast 
The  waves  enchained  rest, 

Gleaming  in  noonday  brightness. 

Yet  doth  the  bluebird  sing, 
As  though  it  knew  the  spring 

Over  the  earth  was  stealing. 
Its  song  doth  tell  the  earth 
Of  the  flowers'  coming  birth 

In  shadowy  revealing. 

Ere  the  uprisen  sun 
Our  day  hath  yet  begun, 

I  hear  the  bluebird  singing. 
It  seemeth  unto  me, 
Herald  of  what  must  be 

When  the  woods  with  songs  are  ringing. 

The  coming  of  the  spring, 
What  joyance  it  doth  bring 
Unto  the  happy-hearted ! 


"BE  NOT  WEARY"  255 

As  if  all  grief,  and  pain, 
And  tears  that  fall  like  rain, 
With  winter  had  departed. 

And  spring,  with  footsteps  light, 
Brought  sunshine  warm  and  bright, 

To  fill  the  golden  hours ; 
While  fast  on  every  slope, 
Like  harbingers  of  hope, 

Shoot  up  the  little  flowers. 

O  merry  hearts  and  free ! 
The  spring-time  is  to  ye 

As  the  sweet  flow  of  a  story 
Upon  whose  waves  we  glide 
By  some  beloved  one's  side, 

From  glory  unto  glory. 

Heard  ye  the  bluebird  sing? 
Its  glad  song  yet  doth  ring 

Across  the  winter  morning ; 
And  in  my  heart  and  eyes, 
An  answering  gladness  lies. 

I  see  the  spring-time  dawning ! 


"Be  not  Wears."  — 2  Cjjess.  Hi.  13. 

WHAT  !  must  we  falter  —  turn  half  back  — 
For  that  the  way  we  tread  is  not  so  smooth, 
But  steep  and  rough,  and  seemeth  very  long 
Unto  our  weary  feet  ?    Life  is  no  day 
That,  bright  with  sunshine  and  unclouded  skies, 
Shall  only  close,  when  death,  a  quiet  sleep, 
Shall  take  us  hence  away;  no  dream  of  bliss, 
That  lulling  heart  and  soul  in  all  delights, 
Shall  float  us  gently  on  our  earthly  course ; 
To  find,  when  heaven's  shores  are  reached  and  won, 
Its  sole  awakening.    Not  thus,  nor  so, 
Must  our  probation  be. 

Since  that  dark  day 

When  man,  by  sinning,  lost  the  Eden  bowers, 
The  watchful  Angel  of  the  Flaming  Sword 
Doth  stand  between  him  and  the  happy  groves 
Wherein  GOD  walked  of  old.    No  feet  of  earth, 
Sin-stained,  and  erring,  e'er  have  pressed  the  sod 


256  "BE  NOT  WEARY" 

Of  that  fair  garden  ;  and  no  human  eyes 
Have  looked  upon  its  beauty,  or  beheld 
The  bloom  of  Paradise. 

"Was  not  the  earth 

Cursed  for  the  sin  of  man  ?    Therefore  we  toil 
To  win  our  daily  bread.     Therefore  we  find 
Our  daily  paths  so  hedged  about  with  thorns ; 
While  snares,  and  pitfalls  manifold,  are  there 
To  catch  the  unwary  feet.     Therefore  our  lives 
Are  as  a  burden  that  we  must  take  up 
And  carry  to  our  graves.    It  must  be  borne. 
We  cannot  lay  it  down,  as  of  ourselves, 
But  at  such  fearful  cost  as  a  soul  lost 
Through  all  the  hereafter.    It  must  be  borne,  — 
This  burden  that  grows  heavier,  day  by  day ; 
And  this  stern  " must"  is  written  on  our  lives. 
We  see  it,  feel  it ;  yet  our  eager  hands 
Are  ever  seeking  how  to  change  the  load 
The  shoulders  weary  of,  —  how  to  fling  it  off,  — • 
If  their  poor  skill  might  serve  to  compass  that,  — 
Or  else,  to  lighten  it.    Of  what  avail? 

I  know  a  secret,  worth  the  hearing,  here. 

What  if  a  man  should  lift  the  burden  up, 
And  bear  it  cheerfully,  as  one  might  bear 
A  flower  in  the  hand ;  and,  smiling,  tread 
The  thorny  path  that  lies  before  his  feet? 
What  if  his  steadfast  eyes,  securely  fixed 
Upon  the  certain  goal,  should  never  see 
The  weary  roughness  of  the  path  he  treads, 
Or,  seeing,  heed  it  not?    What  if  his  feet, 
(No  stumbling  on  the  mountains  dark  for  them) 
Upheld  by  secret  strength,  should  falter  not, 
But  press  on  nobly  to  the  Land  so  fair 
Faith  gives  him  sight  to  see  ?    What  if  his  lips 
Go  softly  singing  all  the  weary  way 
A  hymn  of  praise  to  GOD  ?    What  if  his  heart  — 
Though  not  unconscious  of  life's  bitterness, 
And  suffering  keenly  every  pang  life  gives  — 
Have  yet  within  itself  a  balm  for  all ; 
And  will  not  dash  away  the  Marah-cup, 
But  drain  it  to  the  dregs  ;  nor  turn  aside 
From  the  rough  path?    Have  not  some  holiest  feet 
(The  feet  a  sinful  woman  washed  with  tears) 
Left  sacred  traces  on  the  path  he  treads  ? 
And  shall  he  fear  to  follow  where  those  feet, 
Those  wounded  feet,  have  been?    What  if  the  soul, 


THE    TRESS   OF  HAIR.  257 

With  prescient  eye,  doth  look  beyond  the  earth, 
And  sees,  far-shining,  the  eternal  crown 
Awaiting  aye  the  victor  in  the  strife  ? 
And  victor  in  the  strife  he  still  must  be 
Who  owns  himself  a  soldier  of  the  Cross, 
A  follower  of  the  Lamb ! 


of  Ptair. 

ONLY  a  tress  of  nut-brown  hair, 
Yet  it  told  of  some  distant  hills, 
Where  out  in  the  sunshine,  close  by  the  rills, 
A  little  grave  was  made 

Some  twenty  years  ago. 
Summer's  breezes,  soft  and  low, 
O'er  that  grassy  hillock  blow ; 
Winter  winds  above  the  snow 
With  a  bitter  moaning  go ; 

But  the  little  maid, 
Whose  dust  is  lying  all  below, 
Heeds  neither  wind  nor  cold. 
Underneath  that  senseless  mould, 
Sounds  of  earth  reach  not  to  her; 
Summer  breezes  cannot  stir 
The  wavings  of  that  nut-brown  hair; 

All  that  now  is  left  of  her, 
Save  the  dust  that  was  so  fair 
Twenty  years  ago ! 

Winter  sunsets  glow  and  shine 

On  the  hills  dark- clothed  with  pine, 

Where  her  dust  is  lying ; 

But  waters  of  an  Eastern  sea 

That  lave  the  Australasian  Isles, 

Shall  chant  his  requiem ; 
And  wealth  of  nature's  empiric, 
And  lavish  splendor  of  her  smiles, 

Crown,  as  a  diadem, 
The  little  valley  where  he  lies, 
Beneath  the  light  of  golden  skies 
That  flame  when  day  is  dying. 

So  far  apart  are  they 
Who  in  the  old  familiar  days 
Stood  hand  in  hand,  beneath  the  rays 

Of  one  bright  summer  day. 
It  saw  them  part.    No  more  —  no  more  — 
17 


258  "PARTED." 

To  meet  on  sea,  or  meet  on  shore ; 
And  severed  wide,  by  all  the  space 
O'er  which  the  sun  hath  run  his  race 

While  half  a  day  is  flying. 
The  dust  of  each  must  rest  in  sleep; 
And  neither  knew  when  one  must  weep 

Above  the  other,  dying ! 


AH  !  between  us  a  shadow  lies, 
Not  to  be  seen  by  human  eyes, 

But  I  feel  it  at  my  heart's  core, 
Something  intangible,  dark,  and  cold, 
That  up  from  the  depths  of  distrust  hath  rolled 
And  it  darkeneth  evermore. 

Ah  between  us  a  shadow  lies ; 
And  never  light  of  summer  skies 

Can  shut  that  crescent  shadow  out. 
Slowly  it  groweth,  of  darkest  hue, 
And  all  that  was  fairest,  and  all  most  true, 
Doth  seem  as  o'erladen  with  doubt. 

Ah!  between  us  a  shadow  lies. 
I  miss  the  love-light  in  your  eyes ; 

The  warmth  and  sunshine  of  your  smile; 
And  my  bark  of  hope  that  sailed  so  far, 
On-guided  by  a  treacherous  star, 

Is  wrecked  upon  a  barren  isle. 


PARTED  !  the  world  goes  on  the  same. 

Suns  rise  and  set,  days  come  and  go; 

And  yet  through  all  this  ebb  and  flow 
Of  evening's  dusk,  and  morning's  flame, 
A  something  from  my  life  hath  gone ; 

And  all  the  years  that  come  to  me, 

Each  fraught  with  its  own  nrystery, 
Will  find  me  in  the  dark  alone. 


BARBARA.  259 

Parted  I  never  to  meet  again ! 

The  darkness  fadeth  with  the  night ; 

Ever  the  morning  bringeth  light ; 
And  sunshine  cometh  after  rain ; 
But  never  morrow  brings  to  me 

The  tender  clasp  of  one  true  hand. 

Alone  upon  my  hearth  I  stand ; 
No  loving  eyes  look  down  on  me. 

Parted !  a  short  and  bitter  word, 

That  falls  like  frost  on  life's  young  spring, 

Till  all  its  flowers  are  withering. 
It  pierceth  me  like  any  sword ; 
And  yet  I  cannot  heal  the  pain. 

All  throbs  of  joy  most  exquisite, 

All  loving  passionate  and  sweet, 
Will  never  come  to  me  again ! 

Parted !  and  I  am  lonely  now. 

The  years  to  be  may  come  and  go ; 

And  I  may  live  till  age's  snow 
Lies  heavy  on  my  weary  brow. 
May  live,  and  in  still  patience  wait 

(Learning  from  ashes  and  from  dust, 

In  Whom  my  soul  should  put  its  trust) 
Till  openeth  the  Golden  Gate. 


Barbara, 

AH  !  but  I  love  him,  dearly,  dearly ; 

All  my  world  in  his  presence  lies ; 
Thrilleth  my  heart  to  the  touch  of  his  fingers, 

And  owneth  its  sunshine  in  his  eyes. 
Only  the  sound  of  his  voice  to  be  hearing; 

Only  the  smile  on  his  face  to  see ; 
A  little  thing  this,  save  unto  the  loving, 

But  it  contenteth  me. 
Ah!  but  I  love  him,  dearly,  dearly; 

Better,  I  think,  than  he  loves  me; 
Only  my  lips  are  so  slow  to  utter 

What  his  say  so  tenderly. 


260     "ONCE  THERE  LIVED  A  KING  IN  THULE" 


"  ©nee  tjjere  Itfce*  a  ifcfog  in 

"  ONCE  there  lived  a  king  in  Thule," 

Near  a  thousand  years  ago, 
But  his  name  hath  been  forgotten ; 

On  his  grave  the  tall  trees  grow. 
Stones  that  were  framed  in  his  palace 

Have  been  ground  into  the  clay ; 
All  of  him,  save  one  brief  story, 

Long  ago  did  pass  away. 

"  Once  there  lived  a  king  in  Thule  " 

(Peasant  lips  the  story  tell), 
Who,  despite  his  royal  splendor, 

Loved  a  peasant-maiden  well; 
And  he  would  have  had  her  crowned, 

Crowned,  queened,  in  a  breath; 
But  for  One  who  came  between  them. 

No  light  wooer  is  King  Death. 

Dawned  a  fair  and  golden  morning 

(Meet  are  such  for  bridal-day), 
But  no  bride  was  there  to  greet  it,  — 

In  her  shroud  the  maiden  lay. 
And  unto  the  king  they  bore  her, 

With  a  slow,  unequal  pace ; 
Brought  her  near  that  he  might  gather 

All  the  silence  in  her  face. 

Peace  unto  the  broken-hearted ! 

Words  are  empty,  —  words  are  vain. 
Never  on  that  kingly  gazer 

Will  that  sweet  face  smile  again ! 
Hush !  they  go  from  out  his  presence,  - 

They,  the  bearers,  one  by  one ; 
And  the  stricken  king  of  Thule 

By  that  hushed  heart  stands  alone ! 

"  Once  there  lived  a  king  in  Thule,' 

Faithful  was  he  unto  death ; 
Never  wooed  he  other  maidens,  — 

So  the  olden  story  saith. 
But  he  framed  with  loving  fingers 

As  a  true  heart  might  devise, 
A  gold  cup  in  her  sweet  memory, 

And  he  made  it  on  this  wise. 


"  TOO  LATE"  261 

For  the  stand  two  hands  were  clasped, 

And  they  held  a  lily  up. 
Only  this,  —  but  through  a  long  life 

Used  the  king  no  other  cup. 
And  when  life  was  slowly  passing, 

In  his  weak  and  trembling  hands, 
Held  the  king  the  lily-goblet. 

What  says  he  of  "  other  lands?" 

Nay,  we  know  not.     All  is  over ; 

And  the  heart  so  faithful  lies 
Still  and  cold  within  the  palace, 

For  the  king  of  Thule  dies. 
And,  through  all  the  ages  after 

(Nothing  known  of  lineage,  name), 
Floats  the  old  familiar  story, 

All  of  him  that's  left  to  Fame. 


"  £00  Hate." 

NAY  ;  I  am  dying.     All  too  late 
Your  proffered  love  doth  come. 

Had  it  been  given  years  ago, 

Death  had  not  mocked  the  offering  so. 
Now  I  am  going  home ! 

Nay ;  I  am  dying.     See  you  not 

How  vain  all  love  must  be? 
It  could  not  steal  one  hour  from  death,  - 
It  could  not  give  one  added  breath 

Of  this  poor  life  to  me. 

Nay ;  I  am  dying.    Better  so ; 

You  will  not  miss  me  long. 
The  love  through  all  these  years  forgot, 
Is  but  a  thing  that  was  —  is  not  — 

And  lieth  graves  among. 

And  I  am  dying !  Even  now 

I  go  to  my  last  sleep ; 
And  earth  shall  have,  by  morning  shine 
(The  sole  thing  left  of  all  was  mine), 

A  little  dust  to  keep. 


262  "  SPEKO  MELIOEA: 


Stone. 

WAITING  under  the  apple-boughs, 
Sat  a  maiden,  young  and  fair, 

Heaven's  own  blue  was  in  her  eyes, 
Its  sunshine  on  her  waving  hair. 

Breezes  balmy,  fresh  and  sweet, 
Were  idly  blowing  everywhere ; 

While  o'er  her  head  the  apple-blooms 
Did  fill  with  fragrance  all  the  air. 

Low  at  her  feet  a  brooklet  ran 
Withjeilvery  singing  to  the  sea; 

And  peeping  from  their  grassy  couch 
The  purple  violets  decked  the  lea. 

A  few  light  clouds  did  fleck  the  sky,  — 
White  snow-drifts  on  a  field  of  blue ; 

And  in  the  meadows,  far  and  near, 
Daisies  and  clover-blossoms  grew. 

Sitting  under  the  apple-boughs, 
Through  all  the  summer  afternoon, 

The  maiden  waited ;  lips  and  heart 
Were  singing  softly  one  sweet  tune. 

And  fast  the  happy  hours  flew; 

Love  touched  them  with  his  rosy  wing; 
For  Hope,  and  Joy,  and  Life  also, 

With  her  were  only  in  their  spring. 


A   Scutcheon,    bearing   this    device,    was    found   on    the    Sable   Island 
sole  record  of  some  noble  vessel  lost. 

TOSSED  on  the  shore  of  the  Sable  Isle, 

A  waif  from  the  stormy  sea, 
Was  a  blazed  scutcheon,  carved  fair 

With  device  of  heraldry. 
And  out  from  the  shore  so  rough  and  bare, 

From  the  sands  so  drenched  and  cold, 
"  Spero  meliora"  flashed  and  flamed, 

With  its  letters  of  burning  gold. 


"  SPERO  MEL10RA."  263 

Far,  far  away  on  a  bonny  knowe, 

The  Calder-House  standeth  yet; 
And  over  its  porch,  and  over  its  hearth, 

Is  that  golden  motto  set ; 
Long  centuries  since,  it  was  carved  there ; 

It  hath  storm  and  time  defied. 
How  came  its  semblance  on  this  far  shore, 

Tossed  by  the  rising  tide  ? 

A  haughty  race  were  the  Sandilands  all, 

And  proud  of  their  ancient  fame ; 
For  they  traced  to  the  days  of  David  Bruce 

The  record  of  their  name. 
A  Stuart  maiden  had  wedded  one ; 

For  dower,  her  noble  blood ; 
And  another  had  wooed  and  won  a  wife 

From  the  haughty  Douglas  brood. 

And  Calder-House  hath  its  own  romance, 

And  its  tales  of  the  days  of  eld ; 
And  much  it  boasts  that  it  was  here  John  Knox 

His  first  communion  held. 
Blood  hath  been  red  on  the  oaken  stairs, 

But  the  stains  have  been  washed  away ; 
And  the  silence  of  years  lieth  like  a  pall 

On  the  tale  of  that  olden  fray. 

Under  the  blue  of  a  summer  sky, 

The  birds  were  singing  on  every  tree ; 
And  glad  of  the  sunshine,  warm  and  sweet, 

Laugheth  the  little  burn  merrily. 
Over  the  sward,  'neath  the  birchen  trees, 

Slowly  pacing,  two  lovers  were  : 
One  was  the  heir  of  the  Calder-House ; 

One  but  a  peasant  maiden  fair. 

Tall  and  stately,  and  fair  of  face, 

As  well  his  father's  son  might  be ; 
Loving  and  courteous,  brave  and  free, 

True,  and  gentle,  and  leal  was  he. 
Proud  he  might  be  of  his  ancient  name 

(Pride  was  the  Sandilands'  dower), 
But  he  would  not  stoop  so  to  stain  its  white 

By  spoiling  a  simple  flower. 

And  she  ?  no  flower  in  all  the  land 

Was  half  so  sweet  and  fair ; 
And  he  loved  the  touch  of  that  little  hand, 

And  the  glint  on  her  waving  hair. 


264 

Well  he  knew  that  in  all  the  world 

Was  no  other  love  so  dear 
As  the  love  throbbing  sweet  in  that  little  heart, 

Shining  out  from  those  eyes  so  clear. 

And  more  he  knew,  —  that  he  could  not  bring 

That  little  nameless  flower 
Through  the  dark  porch  of  the  Calder- House, 

Into  its  Lady's  Bower. 
But  down  in  his  heart  of  hearts  he  had  vowed 

That  the  flower  should  be  his  bride, 
Though  he  left  the  home  and  the  lands  of  old 

To  roam  through  the  world  so  wide. 

He  wrote  the  vow  in  a  sealed  book, 

And  she  never  saw  the  page ; 
Else  the  heir  of  the  Sandilands  had  gone  forth 

Alone  on  his  pilgrimage. 
This  woman-heart,  so  loving  and  true, 

Would  have  lived  and  died  alone, 
Had  she  known  his  thought,  —  but  she  never  knew  it; 

And  together  they  have  gone ! 

Many  a  summer  came  and  went, 

Bringing  sunshine  to  the  burn ; 
But  for  the  two  who  once  wandered  there, 

Was  never  the  word  "  return." 
And  year  after  year  swept  wearily  on, 

O'er  the  same  old  beaten  track ; 
But  never  a  year  of  all  that  went  by 

Did  bring  the  lost  heir  back. 

The  lord  of  the  Calder-House  mourned  full  long 

For  his  first-born  and  his  last, 
Till  silence  fell,  like  a  mantle,  o'er 

The  story  of  the  past, 
And  rarely  now,  save  in  cottage  old, 

(And  then  with  secret  dread), 
Was  the  sad  tale  told  of  the  vanished,  heir,  — 

Was  he  living  ?  was  he  dead  ? 

Tossed  on  the  shore  of  the  Sable  Isle, 

A  waif  from  the  stormy  sea, 
Was  a  blazoned  scutcheon,  carved  fair 

With  device  of  heraldry. 
And  out  from  the  shore  so  rough  and  bare, 

From  the  sands  so  drenched  and  cold, 
"Spero  meliora"  flashed  and  flamed, 

With  its  letters  of  burning  gold ! 


JACOB   MOOR.  265 

"  Jaccfr  4iH00r,  ©fc.  2  June,  1758.    &t.  \\r 

Inscription  on  a  coffin  found  on  the  shore  of  Spitzbergen. 

ALONE  he  sleeps,  amid  eternal  snows. 
A  coffin  rude  doth  cradle  the  repose 
That  hath  no  waking;  and  the  moveless  eyes 
Look  alway  upward  to  the  changeful  skies. 
The  sailor  rests  on  bleak  Spitzbergen's  shore, 
And  there  hath  lain  a  hundred  years  or  more ; 
No  lines  effaced ;  no  human  features  lost ; 
Touched  into  marble  by  the  eternal  frost. 

A  hundred  years  !  they  could  a  story  tell 

Of  some  poor  hearts,  that,  loving  long  and  well, 

Did  patient  wait  upon  a  sunnier  shore 

For  the  pale  sleeper  who  returned  no  more. 

Alas !  for  weariness  of  waiting  hours 

That  stole  some  beauty  from  the  fairest  flowers ; 

While  unseen  shadows  from  the  far  away 

Crept  o'er  the  sunshine  of  the  summer-day! 

A  thousand  voices  came  on  every  breeze 

That  stirred  the  leaves  of  the  familiar  trees 

Around  the  cottage  growing,  —  voices  low 

That  floated,  wind-borne,  from  the  untrodden  snow, 

To  tell  their  story  of  the  frozen  slope 

Where  he  was  lying,  and  to  crush  out  hope. 

But  loving  ears  are  deaf;  they  do  not  heed 

The  tale  the  winds  have  told.    Hope  plants  such  seed 

In  human  hearts,  that  when  the  germ  takes  root 

'Tis  ineradicable,  —  bearing  fruit 

Both  sweet  and  bitter.     It  but  seems  to  die ; 

But  in  the  passion  of  its  agony 

Hath  evermore  new  birth ;  doth  upward  rise, 

When  the  freed  soul  is  hasting  to  the  skies ; 

And  in  the  world  beyond,  secure  from  strife, 

It  hath  its  rest;  it  hath  eternal  life. 

Not  tempest-tossed  as  here,  —  rocked  to  and  fro 

By  every  billow,  —  flung  from  sun  to  snow,  — 

But  safely  anchored  on  the  further  shore, 

And  in  sure  haven  guarded  evermore. 

S^  we  believe  they  waited,  —  those  who  wore 
No  mourning  garments  for  poor  Jacob  Moor. 
Not  unto  them  came  tidings  of  the  fate 
That  left  their  quiet  home  all  desolate ; 
And  so  they  waited ;  until  hope  grew  dim 


266  A   DREAM  OF   YOUTH. 

As  faithful  unto  death  they  watched  for  him. 
The  years  went,  slowly ;  but  ere  fifty  sped 
Each  patient  heart  was  resting  with  the  dead, 
And  crumbling  into  dust ;  while,  far  away, 
Beneath  the  eternal  stars  or  glare  of  day, 
His  form  was  lying;  changeless,  as  if  death, 
Who  hushed  the  witness  of  the  sleeper's  breath, 
Had  taught  unto  himself  a  strange  device, 
And  given,  not  dust  to  dust,  but  ice  to  ice. 

It  matters  not,  unto  what  burial 

We  give  the  dead.     Beneath  the  royal  pall 

The  dust  that  lieth  is  but  only  dust ; 

And  wave-tossed  bodies  (that  may  have  a  crust 

Of  cold  wet  sand  above  them,  some  fair  day) 

Are  on  the  self-same  journey,  —  the  same  way. 

Severed  as  wide  as  pole  from  pole,  on  earth, 

Are  kings  on  thrones,  and  peasants  by  their  hearth ; 

But  one  doom  comes  to  all :  death,  and  the  grave, 

Alike  inevitable.     No  strength  can  save ; 

No  human  art  avail ;  and  end  all  must, 

With  hearts  to  silence,  and  with  dust  to  dust. 

Best  we  content,  where'er  our  dust  may  be, 

In  earth's  safe  bosom,  or  beneath  the  sea, 

Since  GOD  will  give  it  immortality. 


&  ©ream  of  ff  outfj,  an^  fte  3Etoto  tfjmof 

"  Oh !  but  this  world  is  a  rare  sweet  world, 
It  hath  neither  cloud  nor  storm ; 

And  never  a  touch  of  Decay's  cold  hand 
Doth  its  beauty  fair  deform. 

"  Sweet  in  its  valleys  the  flowerets  bloom, 
To  be  gathered  by  gentlest  hands  ; 

And  the  sunlight,  evermore  soft  and  warm, 
Shineth  golden  on  the  lands. 

"  Quietness  dwelleth  above  this  world  — 
There  is  never  turmoil  nor  jar; 

And  the  warring  clang  of  embattled  hosts 
Is  heard  not  'neath  sun  nor  star. 

"Peace,  as  a  dove,  broodeth  in  all  haunts 
Where  the  human  hearts  may  be ; 

And  the  freest  hands  and  the  truest  souls 
Are  found  over  land  and  sea. 


A   DREAM  OF   YOUTH.  267 

"  Clamor  and  wrath  are  as  things  unknown, 

And  envy  hath  never  room 
In  the  simple  hearts  where  a  doubt  comes  not 

With  its  shadow  and  its  gloom. 

"  Oh !  but  this  world  is  a  rare  sweet  world ! 

We  will  make  its  beauty  ours, 
And  sleep  and  wake,  as  the  days  go  on, 

'Mid  its  sunshine  and  its  flowers." 

So  dreameth  Youth,  while  the  morning  light 

Falleth  rosy  on  his  way ; 
But  a  change  o'er  his  dream  cometh  slow  and  sure 

With  the  fading  of  the  day. 

He  hath  gathered  the  flowers,  or  passed  them  by, 

For  that  fairer  bloomed  before ; 
He  hath  thrown  them  aside ;  yet  none  so  sweet 

Will  the  future  have  in  store. 

He  thinketh  not  so.     What  his  hand  doth  hold 

Is  a  thing  of  little  worth ; 
What  the  future  bringeth  —  ah !  there  shall  be 

The  whole  glory  of  the  earth ! 

The  noon  burned  down  on  the  morning's  bloom, 

And  the  flowers  are  faded  —  dead  — 
And  the  evening  heareth,  far-off  and  slow, 

Over  desert  sands,  his  tread. 

The  night  stealeth  soft,  with  a  stealthy  pace, 
O'er  the  world  he  had  thought  so  fair; 

And  its  shadows  are  folding  him  unto  sleep; 
And  the  sands  of  Death  lie  bare ! 

Night,  with  no  shining  of  moon  or  star 

To  light  the  way  for  him, 
Closeth  dark  o'er  his  path,  so  lone  —  so  cold  — 

The  very  heavens  are  dim ! 

The  world,  so  fair  in  his  dew  of  youth, 

Lieth  cold,  and  bleak,  and  bare; 
And  dark  at  his  feet  3rawns  an  open  grave, 

And  the  dust  and  the  worm  are  there ! 

Where  now  are  the  blossoms  so  fresh  and  sweet? 

Where  now  are  the  golden  skies  ? 
Their  beauty,  their  glory,  have  vanished  all, 

And  blackness  over  them  lies. 


268  A   DREAM  OF   YOUTH. 

Long  since  came  Doubt  with  its  poison-cup, 
And  the  youth  drank  deep  and  long ; 

For  the  wine  was  sparkling,  the  foam-drops  clear, 
But  the  poison  beneath  was  strong. 

It  dulled  the  beat  of  his  throbbing  heart 

To  a  measure  calm  and  cold ; 
Till  up  from  their  den  came  the  shadows  of  hell, 

And  its  mists  about  him  rolled. 

Swiftly,  as  fogs  o'er  the  moorland  creep, 
Came  those  shadows  around  his  path ; 

But  he  braved  them  all  in  his  pride  of  youth ; 
He  felt  so  strong  in  his  wrath. 

They  wasted  away,  as  the  pale  moon  dies 

When  a  cloud  obscures  its  light ; 
But  they  gathered  their  forces  as  they  went  ; 

They  fought  as  the  Parthians  fight. 

He  thought  he  was  victor ;  but  in  his  veins 

The  poison  was  flowing  still ; 
And  they  mocked  with  a  laughter  low,  not  sweet, 

At  the  boast  of  that  human  will. 

So  the  years  went  on ;  and  the  world  grew  dark 
That  had  been  so  bright  and  fair; 

And  Truth  was  not  Truth,  and  over  all  Hope 
Had  fallen  a  cold  Despair. 

What  hath  this  soul  of  its  old  self  retained, 

So  to  keep  beyond  the  years  ? 
What  hath  it  garnered  of  precious  things, 

From  the  world  of  hopes  and  fears  ? 

I  have  read,  in  a  parable  old,  yet  new, 

Of  a  chamber  garnished,  swept, 
Whence  a  devil  had  gone  out ;  but  the  place 

For  his  sure  return  was  kept. 

And  he  came  again  with  sevenfold  strength 
To  the  place  that  was  his  of  yore ; 

And  finding  it  ready,  he  entered  in, 
So  entering  for  evermore. 

Thus  the  soul,  that  had  fought  in  its  day  of  youth 

With  the  gathered  hosts  of  hell, 
Had  left  open  its  gates,  and  its  foes  had  found 

A  place  wherein  to  dwell. 


A    DREAM   OF   YOUTH.  269 

Doubt's  poisoned  cup  had  well  wrought  its  work, 

For  a  shuddering  soul  was  lost ; 
And  a  fearful  price,  and  a  bitter  fee, 

Had  the  sparkling  poison  cost. 

Yea,  the  wealth  of  a  soul  that  GOD  had  made 

Had  been  flung  upon  the  dice ; 
And  hell  had  well  earned  the  bitter  fee, 

And  the  youth,  he  paid  it  twice ! 

Once,  when  the  pureness  of  earth  was  but  held 

As  a  thing  to  be  bought  and  sold ; 
Till  the  dark  had  been  light  to  the  night  of  that  soul 

Which  had  bartered  its  wealth  for  gold. 

And  again  —  when  the  soul  that  the  Father  had  given 

To  be  kept  so  clean  from  sin, 
Had  made  broad  the  path  —  had  set  wide  the  gate  — 

For  the  devils  to  enter  in. 

And  they  entered  in  —  and  the  soul  possessed  — 

Was  it  accursed  of  GOD? 
Its  cry  unheard  at  the  Mercy  Seat? 

Unfelt  GOD'S  chastening  rod? 

No  judges  are  we  of  our  brother's  life ; 

There  is  no  omniscience  in  man ; 
Nor  can  we  aright,  with  our  erring  eyes 

The  ways  of  the  Deity  scan. 

Above  the  dust  that  once  held  this  soul 

We  spread  the  funeral  pall ; 
And  over  it,  solemnly,  echo  such  words 

As  one  readeth  at  burial. 

But  it  seemeth  a  strange  and  a  horrible  thing, 

Said  in  mockery  of  all  bliss, 
To  give  unto  dust,  "  in  the  sure  hope  of  heaven," 

Such  a  sinful  life  as  this. 

We  know  that  our  lives  are  in  shadow  here,  — 

That  GOD  seeth  not  as  we ; 
And  the  souls  ice  may  shrink  from  as  all  unclean, 

May  His  chiefest  angels  be. 

Yet  still  it  seemeth  a  mockery 

Of  all  holy  words  and  true, 
To  breathe  them  o'er  dust  that  in  human  eyes 

Had  guilt  of  the  blackest  hue. 


270  WHITHER? 

We  know  "  we  see  darkly,  as  through  a  glass," 

But  no  clearer  sight  is  given  : 
And  if,  in  our  blindness,  we  judge  all  wrong, 

Shall  we  be  forbidden  heaven  ? 

What  if  the  church  forbade  funeral  rites, 

Unto  all  persistent  sin  ; 
And  found  not,  in  any  her  holy  ground, 

A  place  for  its  dust  to  rest  in  ? 

It  might  chance,  that  at  resurrection-day, 
Some  dust,  unhallowed  by  prayer, 

Might  arise  from  its  slumber  without  the  gate, 
And  stand  at  Christ's  right  hand  there ! 

What  if  it  were  so  ?     Our  eyes  cannot  see 
Through  the  dark  veil  of  the  flesh ; 

But  GOD,  he  knoweth,  if  through  soiling  and  stain, 
The  soul  remain  pure  and  fresh. 

So  it  may  be  well  that  our  mother,  the  church, 

Hath  a  larger  heart  than  we, 
And  veils,  with  her  love,  all  the  sin  of  the  dead, 

If  only  for  charity. 

And  charity  covereth  a  thousand  sins, 

And  veileth  uuwearyingly 
All  the  sin-stained  clay  that  is  lying  low 

Where  the  dust  and  silence  be. 


OUR  life  is  but  a  span ;  a  shadow  brought 
From  other  worlds,  and  into  being  wrought 
By  the  one  breath  of  GOD  ;  and  at  his  will 
He  taketh  back  the  life ;  or  good  —  or  ill  — 
To  wait  the  judgment-day.     Our  race  is  run; 
Our  course  is  ended,  and  our  work  all  done. 
Men  fling  above  the  cold  and  lifeless  shell, 
Within  whose  walls  the  human  soul  did  dwell, 
The  dust  of  earth ;  or  shut  in  marble  tomb 
The  shape  that  had  been  glorious  in  bloom ; 
Or  strong  in  strength ;  or  crowned  with  such  fire 
As  doth  the  artist-hand,  or  poet-pen  inspire. 


WHITHER?  271 

We  give  dust  unto  dust;  but  where  doth  go 
The  never-dying  soul?    We  do  not  know  : 
Save  that  the  Father  to  himself  hath  taken 
The  spirit  home ;  so  not  of  him  forsaken 
Who  holdeth  it  in  life.     And  more  than  this, 
We  dare  not  say  we  know.    If  unto  bliss,  — 
The  glory  GOD  reserveth  for  his  own,  — 
Or  unto  darkness,  the  freed  soul  hath  gone, 
We  cannot  know ;  but  far  and  high  above 
All  clouds  of  doubt,  doth  shine  the  sun  of  love ; 
And  in  its  shining  is  a  promise  sweet, 
That  bids  all  fear  and  deathly  darkness  fleet 
Before  its  glory ;  transfiguring  all, 
That  else  were  only  dust  beneath  the  pall. 

Upon  life's  ocean  doth  a  Presence  ride ; 

And  on  the  rising  and  the  falling  tide, 

We  see  the  Shadow  of  the  Crucified,  — 

The  Shape  of  One,  who  for  us  lived  and  died. 

And  through  the  years  there  floats  a  wondrous  song, 

Fresh  from  the  lips  of  an  unnumbered  throng, 

That  alway,  day  and  night,  are  praising  GOD! 

Yea;  unto  us,  in  this,  our  earth-abode, 

Doth  sound  forever,  from  immortal  lips, 

The  glorious  chant  of  the  Apocalypse. 

"Now,  unto  Him,  that  hath  redeemed  us 
From  out  all  nations,  sanctifying  thus 
A  people  unto  him,  be  glory,  power, 
Praise  and  blessing,  dominion  every  hour ! 
For  he  hath  redeemed  us  by  his  blood, 
And  made  us  kings  and  priests  unto  GOD; 
And  we  shall  reign  on  the  earth !  "  and  again  — 
We  hear  the  wording  of  the  glad  refrain  : 
"  Blessing  and  honor,  and  glory  and  power, 
Be  unto  Him  that  sitteth  on  the  throne, 
And  to  the  Lamb  forever  and  ever!  "  — 
"  And  the  four  beasts  said,  Amen !  " 


272       THE  WIND  BLOWETH  WHERE  IT  LISTETH. 


je  fotntj  fclofoctfj  fofjere  it  Ifetrtjj,  anfc  tjjou 

tjje  Bounti  thereof,  fcut  canst  not  tell  fofjcnce  it 

wnutjj,  0r  foljitjjw  it  goetji."  *  —  &t.  .atoijn  iii.  8. 

YEA;  even  so, 
We  cannot  tell,  nor  do  we  know, 

How  to  this  shell, 
Wherein  the  living  soul  doth  dwell, 

That  soul  did  come  ; 

Making  its  earthly  home, 

'Mid  these  poor  walls  of  clay. 

We  do  not  know  from  whence  it  came, 

Nor  through  what  gate,  nor  by  what  way  ; 

Yet  let  us  bid  it  welcome,  in  GOD'S  name. 

For  I  have  thought, 
When  looking  on  some  child's  sweet  face, 

That  I  could  therein  trace, 
The  loving  Hand  that  wrought, 

The  beauty  there  ; 

And  I  have  read,  in  silent  awe, 

Within  the  pure,  clear  eyes, 

A  shadow  of  GOD'S  law  ; 

As  if  the  soul, 
•  So  lately  come  from  out  GOD'S  hand, 

All  innocent  of  sin, 
Bore  yet  his  impress  fair. 
And  when  he  gathers  in, 
As  oft  he  doth,  the  wee  lambs  of  the  fold, 

It  seemeth  unto  me, 

That  in  the  falling  of  their  sweet  life's  sand, 
They  come  and  go  ; 

And  so, 
We  only  see 

Them  passing  from  GOD'S  hand  that  gives, 
Unto  GOD'S  hand  that  takes. 

Each  little  one  forsakes 
The  fold  for  earthly  shelter  given, 

And  lives 

For  evermore  in  heaven  ; 
So  going  home  unto  its  native  land  ! 

But  when  in  strength  and  fulness  of  all  years, 
And  having  gained  the  stature  of  a  man, 
And  lived  out  its  alloted  span, 

*  As  applied  here,  this  quotation  has  no  reference  to  its  context. 


THE    WIND   BLOWETH    WHERE   IT  LISTETH.      273 

The  soul  doth  leave  its  shell, 

And  journeys  on  elsewhere  to  dwell, 

Forever  done  with  hopes  and  fears ; 

Where  doth  the  spirit  go? 

We  know, 

When  from  the  mountain's  brow  the  torrent  leaps, 
That  some  day  soon  its  downward  flow 

In  the  far  ocean  sleeps. 

Our  eyes  can  trace  its  long  and  devious  way; 
Follow  its  turnings  and  its  course  attend ; 

But  when  the  soul 
Upon  its  outward  course  doth  wend, 

We  cannot  say 

Unto  what  heighths  or  depths  its  flight  shall  tend ; 
We  see  no  certain  goal ! 

We  know  that  GOD  will  keep  our  dust ; 

And  in  this  trust 
We  give  the  forms  of  our  beloved  unto  earth ; 

And  in  no  dearth 

Of  hope  so  give  them ;  but  the  soul 
That  made  that  dust  so  fair, 

Is  no  more  there ; 

Hath  passed  beyond  our  ken ; 

Is  known  no  more  amid  the  haunts  of  men. 

Ere  death  did  ope  the  door, 
Its  dwelling  was  with  rich  or  poor; 

It  once  informed  the  clay, 
And  looked  from  out  its  windows  of  the  eyes ; 

But  darkness  lies 

On  those  closed  windows,  and  the  day 

No  more  is  mirrored  in  them ;  far  away, 

The  soul  that  gave  them  light  is  journeying 

Unto  another  world  —  another  spring,  — 

We  know  not  where ! 

Perchance  in  Paradise 

It  resteth  from  its  labor,  waiting  there 

The  resurrection-morning ! 

GOD  grant  that  in  the  sunburst  of  its  dawning 

It  bring  us  life  that  passeth  not  away ; 

That  hath  no  closing  day ! 

Not  with  a  fitful  fire  burning, 

And  soon  to  ashes  turning, 

But  glorious  as  the  everlasting  Light 

That  needeth  not  the  sun ; 
For  we  shall  dwell  where  never  cometh  night, 

Where  the  day  is  never  done  ; 
For  the  LORD  the  Light  thereof  shall  be, 
18 


274      THE    WIND   BLOWETH    WHERE   IT  LISTETH. 

And  there  is  no  star  nor  moon, 

But  an  eternal  noon ; 
A  glory  inapproachable, 
Wherein  the  soul  shall  dwell. 

There  is  neither  hunger  nor  thirst ; 

There,  the  last  shall  be  the  first ; 

There,  sorrow  and  death  are  all  forgot 

And  tears  are  not ; 
There,  Time  shall  be  no  more ; 

And,  o'er  and  o'er, 

Is  heard  the  song  that  none  may  know 
Save  the  thousands  —  "  one  hundred  and  forty- four  "  - 

Redeemed  from  the  earth 
As  the  first  fruits  of  the  Lamb. 

There,  robed  in  white, 
And  aureola-crowned,  shall  stand 

The  holy  martyr  band ; 
Whose  souls,  through  torture  and  the  burning  flame, 

Went  up  to  GOD. 

There,  they  who  "  through  much  tribulation  came," 
And  thorny  pathways  trod ; 

And  who  flung  down 
The  world  and  life  as  things  of  little  worth, 

As  shadows  of  this  earth, 
Being  found  faithful  unto  death, 

Shall  wear  the  crown. 

He  that  is  Faithful,  saith, 

"  Behold,  I  give  unto  them  a  crown  of  life, 

And  they  shall  reign  with  me 
And  share  my  glory  everlastingly." 

Not  to  the  grave, 

Where  beauty,  strength  and  weakness  must 
Be  all  resolved  to  dust ; 
Where  pomp  and  power, 
Strength  of  oak  and  fragileuess  of  flower, 

Alike  shall  pass  away ; 
Not  to  the  grave  look  we  to  find  the  soul, 
That,  gone  from  out  the  clay, 
Hath  no  more  lodging  there; 

But,  free  as  air, 
Doth  wander  through  illimitable  space, 

Where, 

If  our  spirit  eyes  could  see 
Through  veiling  flesh,  we  might  discern 
Each  sweet  familiar  face ; 
And  know 


THE    WIND   BLOWETH    WHERE   IT  LISTETH.     275 

How  very  near  each  franchisee!  soul  might  be, 

And  haply  learn 

How  alway  watch  and  ward  they  keep 
Alike  o'er  hours  of  waking,  hours  of  sleep. 

How  round  about  our  paths  they  stand, 
And  with  their  loving  and  yet  unseen  hand 

Do  wipe  away  our  tears ; 
And  unto  hearts  with  anguish  riven 
Do  whisper  low,  through  all  the  years, 
Of  coming  joy  and  heaven. 

Behold !  a  cloud  lies  darkly  on  our  way; 

We  see  no  glory  of  the  far-off  sky ; 
The  gladness  hath  departed  from  our  day; 

Our  lips  are  moaning  in  wild  agony, 

And  in  our  hearts  some  grave  doth  open  lie. 

Then  comes  a  sense  of  something  standing  near, 

A  presence  that  doth  cause  no  fear, 

A  shape  we  cannot  see ; 

And  yet  it  brings 

Soft  on  its  viewless  wings, 

A  comfort  rare  and  sweet, 

That  we  cannot  live  without. 

We  feel,  close  folding  us  about 

The  clasp  of  unseen  arms ; 

And  oft, 

A  kiss  pressed  soft 
Upon  the  quivering  lip  or  aching  brow. 

I  say  not  this  is  so  ; 
And  yet  the  thought  hath  charms. 
Nay,  it  hath  a  spell  of  might 
That  shutteth  out  the  night, 
For  the  clouds  are  breaking.     Fast  and  fleet 
The  olden  glory  fills  the  sky  again ; 
(The  sun  it  shineth  after  the  rain) 
And  o'er  the  grave  that  was  of  joy  the  tomb, 
The  grass  grows  greenly,  and  the  flowers  bloom ! 

I  say  not  this  is  so ; 
But  I  believe  it,  and  the  thought 
Is  with  rare  comfort  fraught ; 

And  when  I  go, 

Across  the  river  that  doth  flow 

Between  two  worlds,  and  leaving,  as  I  must, 

"Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust," 

I  shall  return  again ; 
To  light  the  fire  that  hath  gone  out 
Upon  some  stone-cold  hearth, 


276     THE    WIND   BLOWETH   WHERE  IT  L1STETH. 

Leaving  no  spark, 
To  bring  back  sunshine  to  the  earth 

That  sorrow  hath  made  dark ; 

To  give  of  water  the  "  one  cup  " 

That  bears  the  fainting  spirit  up 

Until  it  reach  the  further  shore ; 

To  whisper  hope  when  hope  seems  dead ; 

To  strengthen  Faith ;  to  tread  down  Doubt, 

And  crush  it  evermore ; 
To  watch  o'er  my  beloved,  and,  if  I  may, 
To  keep  them  pure  from  stain 

And  soiling  of  the  clay ; 
To  make  more  smooth  the  thorny  paths  they  tread ; 

Counting  it  no  loss 

To  help  them  bear  their  cross, 

That  else  so  low  might  weigh  them  down 

That  in  their  weariness  they  faint, 

Take  up  no  more  that  burden  of  the  saint, 

And  so  should  miss  the  crown ! 

It  were  a  holy  thing, 
With  deep  joy  fraught, 

If  but  my  soul,  with  quietness,  should  bring 
Unto  some  dying  and  beleaguered  soul, 
Fast  wandering  from  its  goal, 

A  saving  thought ! 

If  but  my  soul  in  other  souls  could  sow 
Some  precious  seed,  and  know 

The  golden  grain 

Should  one  day  soon  be  waving  o'er  that  plain 
Where  shines  God's  sun  to  keep  out  rust,  — 

Where  God's  rain  falleth,  as  it  must, 

In  silence  through  the  world's  loud  din ; 

Where  the  harvests  ripen  evermore 

Into  such  rare  and  goodly  store, 

As  the  angels  gather  in ;  — 

If  but  my  soul  could  do  all  this, 

It  were  a  foretaste  of  that  bliss, 

Which  the  angels  in  heaven  know, 

When  the  sinner  turneth  from  his  lust 

And  repenteth  of  his  sin. 
If  but  my  soul  — 

I  find  no  "  but"  herein. 
I  trust 
That  all  this  shall  be  so. 

I  will  forego 

Not  one  iota  of  this  coming  bliss. 
A  joy  it  is  — 


THE    WIND   BLOWETH    WHERE   IT  L1STETH.    277 

Ere  yet  the  shadow  of  the  heavy  pall 
Shall  o'er  me  fall  — 

To  know 

That,  in  the  dark,  yet  glorious  day 
When  all  the  earth-stains  fall  away 
And  the  hereafter  dawneth,  that  I  may 
A  ministering  spirit  be ! 

What  though  this  problem  of  the  soul's  employ 

To  some  may  seem 
A  solemn  and  unsolved  mystery 

Not  to  be  idly  broken,  — 
A  high  and  holy  truth,  though  yet  unspoken, 

Whereof  men  only  dream, 
And  err  much  in  their  dreaming?  —  I  have  joy 
And  strong,  deep  faith  in  this  my  theory. 

We  do  not  see 
The  shadows  of  our  dead  about  us  moving, 

With  care  so  loving. 
The  veil  of  flesh  shuts  all  that  vision  out ; 

Yet  shall  we  therefore  doubt  ? 
The  why  and  wherefore  of  our  very  life 

Is  all  a  mystery,  and  yet  we  live ! 
(Some  doubting  minds  have  doubted  even  that, 

So  leaving  not  one  airy  pinnacle 
As  treacherous  rest  for  their  uncertain  feet.) 
The  child's  first  cry  doth  witness  give 

Of  breathing  life 

That  doth  within  the  little  body  dwell ; 
And  yet,  whence  came  that  life,  or  how  ? 
And  whither  doth  it  fleet? 

We  have  not  yet 
Solved  that  grand  problem ;  still  we  do  believe, 

And  that  with  little  strife, 

That  the  child  liveth.     This  we  think  we  know ; 
But  more  than  this  doth  lie  beyond  our  ken ; 
And  all  the  long  and  deep  research  of  men, 

Hath  never  yet  resolved  what  spot 
In  all  the  curious  mechanism  of  the  form, 
Holds  life,  or  holds  it  not. 

It  hath  been  thought 
That  life  did  dwell  within  the  busy  brain ; 

A  dream  with  error  fraught ; 
Since  many  a  hideous  wound  lets  out 
The  oozing  brain,  yet  life  remains, 

And  puts  this  fancy  all  to  rout. 
The  liehtning  of  some  summer-storm 


278     THE    WIND   BLOWETH    WHERE  IT  LISTETH. 

Hath  brought  swift  death ; 
And  bleeding  veins 
Have  stifled  breath ; 
But  how  did  the  warm  life  go? 

And  where  ? 
We  do  not  know! 

A  poisoned  cup,  a  venoraed  sting,  — 
Nay,  the  prick  of  a  pin, 
Or  any  slighter  thing, 
May  break  the  enchanted  ring 

That  shuts  life  in ; 

And  the  bright  angel  vanishes  like  a  dream 
When  one  from  sleep  is  waking. 

Do  we  know 
Where  goes  the  dream  the  brain  forsaking, 

Or  whence  it  came? 
So  with  the  spark  of  flame 

Which  we  call  life. 

It  enters  this  our  frame  with  pain  and  strife, 
To  fill  the  world  with  sorrow  or  with  mirth, 

As  our  swift  hours  flow. 

It  leaves  the  teeming  bosom  of  the  earth ; 

And  from  the  tiny  seeds  low  buried  there, 

The  flowers  spring ; 

And  bring 
Unto  our  human  hearts,  so  weary,  sore, 

A  freshness  and  a  glory  evermore. 
Or,  diverse  still,  some  little  germ  shoots  up 
From  piny  cones,  or  acorn's  fretted  cup, 

In  coming  years  to  be 
The  spreading  marvel  of  a  stately  tree, 
And  gloriously  fair ! 

And  so, 

Through  all  the  earth, 

In  kingly  palace,  and  by  lowly  hearth, 

This  life  leaps  up  exultingly, 

So  glad  and  free ! 
The  world  is  full  of  it ; 
And  throned  and  crowned,  it  doth  sit 
On  the  apex  of  the  earth ! 

It  laugheth  out 
In  the  clear,  ringing  shout 
Of  childhood's  frolic  play ; 

It  silent  goes 

Through  quietness  and  gloom,  unto  repose, 

As  streams  that  flow  through  woods  of  pine, 

With  little  of  sunshine ; 


THE    WIND  BLOWETH   WHERE   IT  LISTETH.    279 

It  moves  in  pride, 
As  with  some  river-tide. 
Unto  the  mighty  and  resounding  main; 

It  bears  the  quickening  brain 

Through  boundless  fields  of  thought, 

Where  a  mighty  work  is  wrought, 

Into  the  unfathomable  deeps 

Where  the  tide  of  being  sleeps ; 

It  doth  iu urn  the  soul ! 

But  — it  dies! 

The  glory  of  its  morning  lieth  low ; 
The  silent  waves  above  it  go ; 

And  o'er  it  lies 
The  shadow  of  an  earthly  nevermore ; 

A  closed  door ! 

The  little  flowers  creep 
Unto  a  silent  and  a  sunless  sleep ; 

The  giant  trees 
So  brave  and  strong, 
That  spread  broad  branches  to  the  sun  and  breeze, 

Ere  long 

Shall  have  the  worm  Decay 
Gnawing  at  their  hearts  until  they  fall, 
Making  their  ruin  no  concealing  pall ; 
And  so  they  pass  away ; 

The  little  child, 

Whose  laughter,  sweet  and  wild, 
Was  dearest  music  to  its  mother's  heart, 

Shall  from  its  home  depart ; 
And  the  light,  that  there  hath  shone, 
Shall  be  dim  for  that  childish  presence  gone ; 
And  the  mother's  life  be  darkened 

For  the  little  baby,  dead ! 
The  quiet  life  that  onward  goes 

Through  summer's'sunshine,  through  the  winter-snows, 
And  maketh  no  sign, 
Shall  silently  decline, 

And  fleet, 
As  do  creations  fair  and  sweet ; 

And  so  go  down 
Unto  the  ending,  upward  to  the  crown. 

The  head  uplift, 
That  seems  to  scorn  the  rack  and  rift, 

And  ride 

In  stubbornness  of  pride, 
At  length 


280    THE    WIND  BLOWETH   WHERE  IT  LISTETH. 

Shall  from  its  tower  of  might  and  strength 

Stoop  low,  and  bow 
Stiff  neck  and  haughty  brow, 

With  bated  breath 
Unto  the  Smiter,  Death. 

The  teeming  brain 

That  seemed  to  hold  a  world  within  his  grasp, 
Shall  know  all  tenure  of  the  earth  is  vain ; 

And  loose  its  clasp, 

And  die,  and  be  resolved  to  nothingness ; 
Though  what  it  wrought 
Amid  the  fields  of  thought 
May  live  long  after  it  to  curse  or  bless ; 

And  when  the  light 

Of  life  goes  out  in  silentness  of  night, 

The  soul  doth  also  take  its  flight, 

Or  swift,  or  slow. 
But  whither  doth  it  go  ? 

Flowers  and  tree 

Alike  their  work  have  done ; 

Have  bloomed,  matured  their  seed,  and  gone 

To  their  appointed  ending; 

Blending 
Their  dust  with  dust  that  in  GOD'S  time  shall  bring 

A  fresh,  sweet  birth 

Of  beauty  to  the  earth ; 

A  brightness  and  a  glory  to  a  coming  spring ! 

The  little  one  that  slept, 

While  the  poor  mother  wailed  and  wept 

Above  the  dust  that  did  not  stir, 

Some  day, 

Not  far  away, 

Shall  be  of  her 

Found  waiting  on  the  other  shore ! 

The  quiet  life  f 
(Most  human  lives  are  quiet;  come,  and  go, 

And  nothing  heard  of  them), 
That  by  still  waters  sowed  its  seed, 

Shall  have  a  glorious  meed ; 
And  purple  robe  and  royal  diadem, 
Shall  be  made  ready  for  the  meek, 

The  lowly-hearted, 
Who  from  the  world  so  silently  departed, 

And  went  to  seek 
The  Better  Land  they  knew  awaited  them. 

The  Land  so  fair ! 
The  Blessed  Country  trod 


THE    WIND   BLOWETH,    ETC.  281 

By  saints  who  have  attained  the  glory  there, 

And  dwell  with  GOD  ! 

The  brain  that  caught 

The  falling  mantle  of  divinest  thought, 

And  clothed  its  work  with  spirit ;  made  it  fair 

By  daily  breathings  of  no  earthly  air, 
Shall  reach  the  full  fruition  of  its  dreams ; 

Shall  see  how  far 

Beyond  all  glory  of  the  sun  or  star, 
The  light  of  Heaven  must  be ; 

And  know 

How  near  their  soul 

Was  unto  that  most  certain  goal 

Which  all  true  life  is  hasting  on  to  gain ; 

And  which  it  shall  attain, 

Not  here,  nor  now, 

But  in  that  coming  day 

When  heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away 

As  a  wreath  of  vap'rous  air ; 

And  a  new-born  world  shall  come 

From  the  Hand  of  GOD,  its  home,  — 

And  be, 

Through  all  eternity, 
Beyond  all  dreaming,  fair ! 

We  do  not  know, 

The  while  we  tread  this  earth, 

Whither  the  life  or  soul  cloth  go, 

Nor  whence  it  came ; 
But  we  shall  know,  some  day ! 

This  flame, 
Inhabiting  the  shell 

We  call  our  body,  hath  no  mortal  birth, 
And  doth  not  go  with  it 

Unto  the  dust. 
Each  silently  doth  flit 

Unto  its  own, 
And  with  its  own  shall  dwell. 

All  that  is  known 

Doth  rest  in  fewest  words  : 

"  Dust  unto  dust,"  as  ever  it  must, 

And  the  spirit  to  GOD  that  gave  it; 

And  this  not  our  will,  but  the  LORD'S. 

So  would  we  have  it ! 


282  "  TO   BE,    OR   NOT  TO  BE." 


"  £0  23e,  or  not  £0  Be." 

WHAT  if  beyond  the  grave  there  were  no  waking? 

No  dawn  of  resurrection  for  the  dead? 
Would  not  all  hope,  the  weary  heart  forsaking, 

Die  into  nothingness  before  that  dread  ? 

Who  entered  hell,  as  in  old  Dante's  vision, 
Left  hope  behind  them,  and  without  the  gate; 

So  shut  from  earth  were  that  sweet  shape  Elysian 
If  at  Death's  door  no  after-life  did  wait. 

What  if  the  doom  of  dark  annihilation 
Were  meted  out  to  every  child  of  earth, 

And  never  hope  nor  tidings  of  salvation 
Had  shut  the  shadow  from  each  human  hearth? 

Dost  feel  how  empty  of  all  joy  or  pleasure 

The  myriad  homes  of  this  our  world  would  be  ? 

How  vain  were  laying  up  of  any  treasure, 
That  bore  not  stamp  of  immortality? 

What  if  the  hearts  that  unto  us  are  nearest 
Gave  but  such  love  as  soulless  dust  can  give? 

What  if  the  treasures  we  hold  best  and  dearest 
Should  be  resolved  to  dust,  no  more  to  live  ? 

I  see,  as  in  a  vision  dark  and  dreary, 

A  city  rising  from  the  desert-land ; 
No  voices  sweet,  —  no  footsteps  swift  or  weary,  — 

Are  heard  amid  the  silence  of  the  sand. 

Three  thousand  years,  or  more,  that  sand  hath  drifted 

Around  that  giant  city  of  the  plain ; 
Still  through  the  lapse  of  years  its  head  is  lifted ; 

But  none  may  dwell  within  its  walls  again. 

Fair  are  its  homes,  as  in  the  ages  olden, 

When  man  first  reared  them  'mid  the  bloom  of  earth; 
Still  shine  the  colors,  rainbow-hued  and  golden, 

Soft  traced  there  for  temple,  or  for  hearth ; 

But  they  who  built  have  passed  away  forever, 
Leaving  no  record  of  their  race  or  fame. 

The  massive  stones,  though  proof  of  strong  endeavor, 
Are  stones  of  death  that  never  kept  a  name. 


"UP  IN   THE   MORNING   EARLY."  283 

And  like  this  city,  of  its  own  forsaken, 
Hopeless  and  lonely,  'mid  its  death-in-life, 

Meseemeth  were  this  world,  if  from  it  taken 
Were  the  sweet  hope  that  stilleth  all  its  strife. 


"  tip  m  tlje  fronting 

UP  in  the  morning  early, 

Ere  the  golden  sun-rays  peep, 
Riseth  a  little  maiden 

From  her  quiet  and  dreamless  sleep ; 
While  in  at  her  open  window 

With  the  first  breath  of  the  morn, 
Floateth  the  song  of  the  bluebird,  — 

A  song  that  of  joy  is  born. 
Blithely  the  maiden  she  singeth, 

She  hath  neither  care  nor  gdef. 
The  rose  is  no  rose  yet,  —  the  lily 

Lies  folded  within  the  leaf. 

Up  in  the  morning  early,  — 

But  it  is  no  longer  May ; 
The  flush  and  the  glory  of  summer 

Are  filling  the  long,  bright  day; 
And  up  from  a  dreaming  olden, 

A  dreaming  forever  new, 
Riseth  the  maid,  —  her  eyes  sweetest 

When  the  love-light  is  shining  through; 
And  softly  the  maiden  singeth 

A  song  without  reason  or  rhyme ; 
But  a  sweetness  is  flowing  through  it, 

And  it  hath  a  musical  chime. 

Up  in  the  morning  early,  — 

Though  the  breeze  is  blowing  cool, 
And  the  blossoms  are  faded  and  fallen 

In  the  Garden  Beautiful,  — 
Riseth  the  little  maiden ; 

But  her  brow  is  weary,  pale, 
As  she  flingeth  wide  the  casement 

To  let  in  the  autumn  gale. 
She  singeth  a  song  that  is  saddest, 

But  she  singeth  unconsciously; 
And  a  wail  through  it  all  is  going 

Like  the  moaning  of  the  sea. 


284       "ASHES  TO  ASHES,  DUST  TO  DUST" 

Up  in  the  morning  early,  — 

Never  more  these  words  may  be, 
For  the  little  maiden  lieth 

Where  the  snow  falls  on  the  lea. 
And  never  more  from  the  window 

Shall  gaze  those  sealed  eyes ; 
And  never  song  of  the  bluebird 

Heareth  she  where  low  she  lies. 
Quietly  still  she  is  sleeping, 

And  she  may  not  rise,  nor  stir; 
And  she  singeth  no  more  at  day-dawn ; 

But  the  wind,  it  singeth  for  her. 


to  &sijes,  Bust  to  Bust." 

SOFT  glides  the  Spring  upon  the  frozen  earth, 
With  fairy  footsteps  wandering  to  and  fro. 
The  freed  streams  greet  her  with  renewed  mirth, 

As  lightly  onward  the  glad  waters  go. 
Her  eyes  are  blue ;  soft,  tender,  as.the  sky 

That  smiles  above  her;  eyes  that  have  no  tears 
Save  April  showers,  and  they  pass  quickly  by, 
Leaving  no  shadow  on  her  youth  of  years. 
From  the  dim  distance  crieth 
A  voice  that  never  dieth  : 
"  Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust,"  it  saith. 

Fair  laughs  the  Summer  in  the  golden  light 

Of  tropic  suns  that  crown  her  with  their  rays. 
She  moveth,  like  a  queen,  so  calm  and  bright, 

With  full,  dark  eyes,  betokening  length  of  days. 
Yet  is  she  passionate ;  and  oft  her  wreath 
Of  crimson  roses,  and  of  golden  wheat, 
In  angry  scorn  she  flingeth  underneath 
The  storm-wind's  chariot-wheels,  or  iron  feet. 
From  the  dim  distance  crieth 
A  voice  that  never  dieth : 
"  Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust,"  it  saith. 

With  dusky  cheeks,  and  brows  with  vine-leaves  twined, 
Sweeps  by  the  richly-dowered  and  the  strong, 

The  many-gifted  Autumn !     Free  the  wind, 
In  the  deep  pauses  of  its  swelling  song, 

Lifts  the  long  tresses  of  her  waving  hair; 
Revealing  eyes,  that  wheresoever  bent, 


A   FANCY.  285 

Have  but  one  language ;  deeply  graven  there, 
We  trace  the  very  fulness  of  content. 

From  the  dim  distance  crieth 
A  voice  that  never  dieth  : 
"  Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust,"  it  saith. 

All  robed  in  white,  and  motionless,  and  still, 

As  statue  hewn  from  stone,  pale  Winter  stood. 
The  air  so  keen,  so  bitter,  and  so  chill, 

Had  frozen  the  very  current  of  her  blood 
To  utter  silence.     On  her  brow  there  shone 

A  halo,  for  she  was  Aurora-crowned; 
Her  eyes  were  closed,  as  she  to  sleep  had  gone, 
And  from  her  sealed  lips  there  came  no  sound. 
From  the  dim  distance  crieth 
A  voice  that  never  clieth  : 
"  Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust,"  it  saith. 

Year  after  year,  the  seasons  come  and  go, 

And  ring  their  various  changes  as  they  pass. 
Spring-flowers  bloom,  and  Summer- fountains  flow, 

Till  Autumn-shadows  gather  o'er  the  grass 
And  Winter  shroucleth  all  things  with  its  pall. 

But  year  unto  year  telleth  the  same  tale. 
Forever  and  forever  through  them  all 
Soundeth  the  echo  of  a  ceaseless  wail. 
From  the  dim  distance  crieth 
A  voice  that  never  dieth : 
"  Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust,"  it  saith. 


FAR  away  in  the  dim  recesses 

Of  the  forest's  solitude, 
Where  the  shadows  lie  most  darkly 

On  the  old  rocks  stern  and  rude ; 
Where  the  winds  go  singing  ever 

And  the  brooding  echoes  dwell,  — 
Gushed  a  sweet  and  sparkling  fountain 

Down  in  a  mossy  dell. 

There  was  store  of  golden  lilies 

That  fountain  fair  around, 
And  the  white  and  purple  violets, 

They  covered  all  the  ground. 


286  A   FANCY. 

There  were  tall  and  slender  grass-blades 
That  near  the  water  grew, 

And  ever  were  they  glittering 
With  its  still,  falling  dew. 

Oh,  the  clear  and  limpid  water, 

How  it  gushed  and  bubbled  up 
From  the  sand  so  white  and  shining 

That  lined  its  moss-brimmed  cup ! 
How  it  sang,  in  silvery  singing, 

To  the  quickly  passing  hours, 
That  went  by,  light  and  trippingly, 

As  gliding  over  flowers. 

From  its  birthplace  in  the  forest, 

Its  green  and  mossy  nest, 
Ever  onward  flows  the  water 

With  a  feeling  of  unrest ; 
And  slowly  and  dimly  finding 

Through  the  underwood  its  way, 
Till  it  shows  a  silver  gleaming 

To  some  wandering  solar  ray. 

And  onward,  and  ever  onward, 

Goeth  that  silver  gleam, 
Gathering  strength  and  volume  slowly 

From  every  mingling  stream ; 
Till  the  fountain  and  the  brooklet 

Go,  laughing  in  their  glee, 
A  free  and  mighty  river 

Sweeping  downward  to  the  sea. 

As  the  silver  fountain,  darkly 

In  the  forest  has  its  birth, 
And  flows  all  dimly,  silently, 

Amid  the  groves  of  earth; 
As  it  groweth  to  a  river, 

Strong,  rushing,  deep,  and  free, 
So  the  rise  of  Love's  true  passion 

In  the  human  heart  may  be. 


THE  LADY  ANNE.  287 


ILatig 

* 
ARGUMENT. 

Ye  Rector  goes  back  to  ye  days  of  his  youth,  to  tell  of 
ye  Ladye  Anne  —  her  birth,  childhood,  girlhood.  He 
telleth  of  his  uncle,  ye  first  Rector  of  Morven ;  what 
manner  of  man  he  was;  and  of  ye  'work  that  he  did; 
which  work  shall  live  after  him;  and  of  his  death.  Of 
ye  Aunt  and  Cousins  (two  sisters  and  a  brother)  of  ye 
Ladye  Anne.  Of  Richard  Leigh,  —  what  manner  of  man 
he  was ;  and  how  he  sped  in  his  wooing.  How  he  went 
abroad  for  years  and  came  not  back  again.  Of  ye  Ladye 
Anne  and  her  son.  How  this  son  grew  to  be  a  man, 
and  went  to  battle,  and  was  not.  Of  ye  death  of  ye 
Ladye  Anne. 

Exeunt  Omnes. 


WHAT  time  the  year  was  in  its  youth,  and  Earth 
Did  wear  her  virgin  livery  of  white, 
A  child  was  given  unto  Morven  Hall; 
A  little  helpless  thing  —  a  fragile  girl  — 
The  last  of  that  proud  race.     Ere  she  was  born 
Her  father  slept  in  death,  slain  by  the  foe 
On  a  well-stricken  field.     Her  mother  died 
In  the  hour  that  gave  an  heir  to  Morven, — 
Another  soul  to  earth ;  and,  side  by  side, 
The  earl  and  his  fair  lady  rest  forever. 
Above  their  dust  the  chapel-arches  rise 
In  stately  beauty,  and  through  stained  glass 
The  outer  day  steals,  mellowed  into  light 
Of  all  prismatic  hues ;  so  falling  on 
The  marble  cenotaph  that  guards  the  dead, — 
Giving  and  taking  beauty  I     Quietly, 
Within  the  shelter  of  the  groined  roof, 
The  noble  dead  are  sleeping ;  but,  without,  — 
'Neath  greenest  sward  all  spangled  o'er  with  flowers, 


288  THE  LADY  ANNE. 

Where  shadows  of  the  grand  old  trees  are  tying,  — 
The  poor  have  made  their  rest ;  safe-guarded,  too, 
Since  GOD  cloth  keep  sure  ward  I 

The  days  went  by. 

Old  things  had  been  forgotten,  and  each  hour 
Was  ripening  the  new.     Summer's  roses 
Bloomed  and  died.     Winter's  snows  had  come  and  gone, 
And  Earth  was  older  by  some  twenty  years ; 
Swift  years,  and  full  of  change !    Thrones  had  been  won, 
And  lost,  and  won  again  in  that  brief  time ; 
And  War  had  swept  o'er  Europe  like  a  scourge, 
With  decimating  sword  thinning  the  nations. 
One  man  had  tilled  the  earth  with  anarchy; 
And  made  himself  a  greater  than  a  king 
In  that  his  power  rose  out  of  broken  rule, 
Cemented  deep  by  blood,  sustained  by  swords. 
Yet — strangest  paradox!  —he  was  beloved 
Even  to  idolatry !     But  —  he  fell ! 
Down  toppling  from  his  height,  as  some  huge  cliff 
Falls  sudden  in  the  sea;  and  to  the  sea, 
The  ocean  dashing  on  Helena's  shore, 
We  must  leave  his  requiem ! 

Twenty  years  — 

Whose  written  page,  a  record  sad  and  dark, 
Is  blotted  o'er  with  blood,  and  dank  with  graves  — 
Had  passed  o'er  Morveu's  stately  towers  and  groves, 
And  left  not  one  defacing  impress  there. 
The  same  old  trees  still  bent  their  branches  hoar 
Above  the  old  chapelle,  and  flung  their  shade 
Upon  the  lowly  tombstones  of  the  poor ; 
The  while  their  tops  did  point  unto  the  sky 
With  a  mute  eloquence ;  as  if  to  say, 
"Not  to  the  dust  that  mouldereth  at  our  feet 
Look  ye,  O  mortals,  for  the  loved  who  went 
From  out  your  world  forever  when  they  died ! 
For  though  ye  gave  them,  dust  unto  the  dust, 
Their  souls  have  passed  upward  unto  GOD, 
The  GOD  *  who  giveth  his  beloved  sleep ! ' " 

Twenty  years !  that  came  and  went  forever. 
In  the  world's  ages  but  a  grain  of  sand, 
Or  less  than  any  atom.     In  man's  life 
That  grain  of  sand  might  be  the  whole  of  earth ; 
As  full  of  deeds,  and  mingled  with  all  change, 
As  is  the  history  of  this  our  world 
'Mid  all  its  countless  periods  of  time. 
These  twenty  years  were  pregnant  with  world-changes, 
That  from  Time's  womb  came  hydra-headed  all, 


THE   LADY  ANNE.  289 

And  History's  page  was  written  o'er  with  blood. 
But  in  far  hamlets,  by  love-lighted  homes, 
Only  the  old  sweet  changes  rang  their  chimes ; 
Save  when  the  Angel  Death  breathed  on  some  flowers, 
Or  touched  with  other  frost  than  that  of  years 
Some  old  and  honored  brow;  and  dust  took  back 
The  dust  that  had  been  given  unto  life. 

Twenty  years  !  and  Morven's  baby-heiress 
Was  a  woman  grown.    Fair,  gentle,  loving; 
But  as  proud  withal,  as  if  the  current, 
Through  those  blue  veins  coursing,  had  come  to  her 
From  a  long  line  of  kings,  who  each  had  worn 
A  kingdom's  coronet  right  royally. 
I  said  that  she  was  gentle,  this  fair  girl, — 
Within  the  covert  of  her  stately  home, 
The  sweetest  mistress  ever  servants  had,  — 
A  Saxon  lady,  pitiful  and  kind. 
So  the  poor  found  her  ever;  but  her  foot 
Crossed  never  threshold  save  her  own  or  theirs. 
The  poor  did  bless  her  with  unsteady  voice, 
And  eyes  that  knew  swift  tears  in  looking  on  her. 
Rough  men  grew  mannerly  if  they  but  met 
The  full,  sweet  gaze  of  those  serencst  eyes ; 
And  children  ?    You  had  thought  the  Lady  Anne 
Some  angel  stooping  from  Us'native  heaven, 
Had  you  but  seen  her  'mid  the  little  ones  ! 
Dearly  they  loved  her,  and  their  hands  so  small, 
Though  brown  from  labor  and  the  burning  sun, 
Would  nestle  in  her  white  hand's  loving  fold 
As  the  brown  fingers  knew  themselves  at  home ! 

There  was  no  beauty  in  sweet  Lady  Anne. 
She  had  a  fairy  figure,  and  a  face 
Most  like  an  angel's ;   but  no  roses  there 
Vied  with  the  lily.     Never  tint  of  bloom 
Had  dyed  those  palest  cheeks;  nor  warmer  glow 
Flushed  o'er  the  pure  white  brow.     A  little  child, 
She  had  been  quiet  ever.     Ringing  laugh 
And  merry  burst  of  song  were  never  hers ; 
And,  spirit-like,  she  wandered  through  the  halls 
Of  her  ancestral  towers ;  or  roamed  at  will 
'Neath  the  dusk  shadows  of  the  ancient  trees. 
There  were  none  to  care  for  her,  none  to  watch, 
And  none  to  understand.     So  the  young  heart 
Grew  heavy  with  its  untold  fantasies, 
Yet  bore  the  burthen  silently ;  and  the  face, 
So  pale  and  still,  was  older  than  the  years 
19 


290  THE   LADY  ANNE. 

The  child's  brief  life  had  counted.     Soft  and  sad, 

The  large  brown  eyes  gazed  wistfully  at  you, 

As  though  they  wanted  something ;  but  they  had 

No  child-look  in  them.    Golden-brown  her  hair 

Shone  in  the  sun ;  but  evermore  there  fell 

A  darker  shadow  on  it,  as  if  caught 

From  deeper  shade ;  a  reflex  of  the  cloud 

That  on  the  heart  was  lying  dark  and  cold. 

A  cloud,  engendered  by  the  lonely  life 

And  solitary  musings  of  the  child,  — 

A  cloud,  which,  breaking  in  the  after  years, 

Shall  bring  forth  tears,  with  agony  and  death, 

The  bitterest  heritage  of  human  life. 

And  these  were  garnered  by  a  little  child,  — 

A  child  whose  fingers  should  have  plucked  the  roses, 

Not  gathered  Dead  Sea  Fruits ! 

O  childhood  fair! 

True  Happy  Valley  of  the  Arabian  Tale ; 
Sole  Eden  left  to  earth ;  unguarded  all, 
When  adamantine  walls  should  shut  it  in ; 
And  at  its  gate,  for  evermore  should  stand, 
The  watchful  Angel  of  the  Flaming  Sword, 
To  keep  its  Way  of  Life !     O  time  so  brief, 
That  should  be  tended  as  a  sacred  thing ; 
Kept  pure  from  all  defilement  of  the  dust ; 
Made  holy  unto  GOD  !  —  how  lightly  we 
Regard  its  innocence,  letting  it  see 
The  sin  that  lieth  nearest  to  our  hearts, 
Daily,  hourly,  till  its  common  use 
Veils  o'er  deformity,  and  makes  that  fair, 
Whose  native  shape  were  one  most  fitting  hell ! 
Well  spake  the  Sage  of  a  long  passed  day,  — 
"  Reverence  to  children  as  to  GOD  is  due;"  " 
Yet  we  neglect  the  precept,  heed  it  not, 
And  with  light  words  and  jests,  ourselves  do  steal 
GOD'S  holy  signet  from  our  children's  brows  ; 
And,  in  their  hearts,  sow  seed  whose  germ  is  Sin, 
Whose  certain  fruit  is  Death ;  yet  think  the  while, 
With  self-approving  smile,  that  we  do  love 
Most  tenderly  our  children. 

Well  we  know 

That  childhood  is  a  field  whose  virgin  soil 
Our  hands  make  ready  for  the  harvesting. 
The  soil  is  fresh,  and  waiting  for  the  seed; 
And  we  are  servants  working  for  our  GOD  ; 
What  shall  the  harvest  be  ?    A  sure  account 

*  Juvenal. 


THE   LADY  ANXE.  291 

Have  we  to  render  when  the  reckoning  comes, 
And  not  one  plea  can  put  the  hour  off. 
What  shall  the  harvest  be? 

The  Lady  Anne 

Had  glided  into  womanhood  alone. 
The  times  were  troublous  ones,  and  sorrow  sat 
At  every  hearthstone ;  dark  suspense  held  sway 
O'er  every  woman's  heart,  and  none  had  thought, 
Or  time  to  think,  of  the  lone  orphan  girl. 
And  so  she  had  become  a  woman  grown, 
With  only  such  brief  schooling  as  she  won 
From  the  old  rector,  very  poor  and  blind, 
Yet  rich,  as  he  thought,  in  her  tender  love. 
She  learned  to  read,  she  scarce  could  tell  you  how, 
And,  day  by  day,  sat  poring  o'er  old  books 
That  proved  rare  food  for  her,  and  stirred  some  pulses 
To  a  strange,  throbbing  life  that  could  not  last ; 
So  faded  to  a  longing,  scarce  defined, 
For  that  which  was  beyond  the  bounded  scope 
Of  her  short  vision.     This,  unsatisfied, 
A  something  intangible  that  no  sense 
Made  present  to  her,  was  a  haunting  nothing 
That  filled  all  pauses  of  her  daily  life, 
Until  she  grew  heart-weary.     Then  there  came 
Into  her  eyes  the  same  old,  wistful  look 
That  marked  her  childhood,  and  her  spirit  burned 
With  the  wild  fever-thirst  that  comes  to  all, 
And  must  be  quenched  soon,  or  else  we  die. 
The  cool,  sweet  rippling  of  the  far-off  fount 
Mocking  us  to  the  last. 

The  Lady  Anne  — 

She  was  a  lady,  gentle  and  beloved  — 
Had  grown  into  the  hearts  of  all  who  dwelt 
Within  her  broad  domain ;  learning  the  way 
A  little  from  the  rector,  who  had  made 
His  fairy  pupil  eyes  unto  himself. 
I  said  that  he  was  blind ;  and  well  she  learned 
The  simple  truths  he  taught  her,  giving  back 
Such  meed  of  love  as  made  his  quiet  life 
Bright  as  the  sunshine  he  could  feel,  not  see  ! 
So  the  old  man  was  happy,  and  his  past 
Was  unto  him  a  closed  and  sealed  book 
That  might  no  more  be  opened ;  as  a  grave, 
O'er  which  the  flowers  growing,  veiled  all  sight 
Of  what  beneath  was  mouldering  to  dust. 
The  present  was  the  grave  of  all  the  past, 


292  THE   LADY  ANNE. 

But  it  had  flowers.    There  was  nothing  more ; 
No  haunting  memory  of  the  old  time  came 
To  cloud  its  sunshine,  or  shut  out  its  day. 
So  the  old  man  was  happy ! 

Far  away, 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  Ben-Nevis,  lies 
A  little  grave,  grown  over  now  with  grass 
And  mountain  heather.     Fifty  years  ago 
That  sod  was  broken,  and  a  young  man  gave 
The  bride  of  one  sweet  month  unto  the  dust 
And  went  upon  his  way.     That  little  mound 
Held  all  he  ever  loved ;  so  the  man's  heart 
Was  homeless  evermore  !     And  fifty  years, 
So  pregnant  with  all  changes,  came  and  went, 
And  found  him  changeless ;  all  his  earnest  life 
In  the  same  even  current  flowing,  filled 
With  daily  rounds  of  duty,  made  most  sweet 
By  the  dear  love  of  children.    But  not  his. 
The  little  grave  upon  the  far-off  hills 
Had  guarded  him  from  loving  woman  more. 
So  the  old  rectory  knew  not  one  sweet  sound 
Of  wife  or  children;  yet  the  days  went  by, 
And  not  unhappily.     No  vain  regrets 
O'er  the  irrevocable,  no  wild  dreams 
Of  that  which  might  have  been,  moved  that  calm  heart 
To  stir  the  ashes  of  the  olden  time. 
So  o'er  his  past,  that  fifty  years  ago, 
The  silence  of  a  life  had  fallen.     A  shroud 
Not  to  be  lifted,  till  the  far-off  dawn 
Of  the  resurrection-morning ! 

Lost  years ! 

And  yet,  not  so !  nothing  GOD  giveth  is ; 
And  all  these  years,  so  lonely,  were  not  lost. 
The  quiet  heart,  shut  out  from  household  joys, 
Was  open  wide  to  all  the  friendless  poor, 
And  had  large  room  for  all  humanities  ; 
The  loving  words  and  deeds  that  make  life  sweet 
To  every  suffering  heart.     And  this  true  soul, 
So  grand  in  its  forgetfulness  of  self, 
Did  wield  a  sceptre  greater  than  a  king's ; 
More  potent  far  its  sway. 

Within  the  sweep 

Of  rugged  hills  that  bound  the  fair  domain 
Of  ancient  Morven,  dwelt  a  Celtic  race, 
Uncared  for,  and  untended,  wild  and  fierce, 


THE   LADY  ANNE. 

With  little  love  for  earth,  and  less  for  heaven. 

Their  native  soil  was  sterile ;  scarce  sufficed, 

'Neath  their  rude  culture,  for  the  scanty  meal 

That  made  their  daily  sustenance ;  and  life 

Was  one  long  day  of  labor  unto  all 

Dawning  in  cradle,  —  closing  in  the  grave ! 

They  were  a  hardy  race ;  in  their  rough  way 

Were  gentle-hearted  too ;  but  life  had  been 

An  endless  struggle  and  a  weary  task 

For  many  centuries,  and  they  could  see 

No  sweetness  in  it,  save  the  dreamless  sleep 

That  follows  after  toil.     The  little  ones  — 

You  scarce  could  call  them  children  —  seemed  to  be 

As  men  and  women  dwarfed,  so  old  they  were 

In  face  and  bearing.     Never  clearest  laugh 

Of  careless  childhood  woke  an  echo  sweet 

Amid  the  green  old  woods.     The  only  sounds 

That  stirred  the  silence  of  the  stony  hills 

Were  such  as  tell  of  dull  and  patient  toil 

That  nothing  knew  of  joy.     Men  always  worked ; 

They  did  not  dare  be  idle,  lest  the  morn 

Should  find  them  starving.     Women's  tender  hands 

Were  brown  and  rough,  and-  on  their  patient  brows 

Was  set  the  sign  of  those  who  have  no  youth, 

And  so  grow  old  before  the  appointed  time. 

I  said  there  were  no  children.     It  was  so. 

Those  wizen  faces,  prematurely  old, 

Had  nought  of  childhood's  freshness  or  its  bloom ; 

And  were  sad  types  most  smileless,  and  most  still, 

Of  all  the  after  years  must  bring  to  them. 

The  slow,  slow  life,  and  age  that  had  no  youth ! 

Unto  these  hills,  —  amid  this  Celtic  race,  — 
Our  simple  rector  came.     Brave  heart!  true  soul! 
That  saw  the  work  before  it,  hard  and  dure, 
Yet  touched  the  plough ;  and  never  turned  away 
For  pleasure,  pain,  or  rest !     And  fifty  years  — 
Did  I  miscall  them  lost?  —  had  told  their  tale; 
Had  ripened  to  such  sweet  and  blessed  fruit, 
Angels  might  stoop  to  gather  it,  nor  dim 
Their  wings  in  stooping. 

A  Sabbath  morn 

Is  breaking  o'er  the  hilltops.     Swift  and  clear 
A  little  river  flows  adown  the  vale 
With  a  low  singing.     Scattered  here  and  there, 
By  river-shore,  on  sunny  meads  and  slopes, 
A  hundred  cottage-homes  are  sending  forth 
Their  inmates  all  to  worship.    Clean  and  neat, 


204  THE   LADY  ANNE. 

They  gather  round  the  porch  of  the  old  chapelle, 
And  wait  the  summons  of  the  soft,  low  chimes, 
Calling  to  early  prayer.     There  are  no  forms 
Amid  that  peaceful  throng  ground  down  to  earth 
By  over-working.     No  pale  faces  there, 
Sharp  with  the  hunger-pain,  or  the  keen  pang 
Of  watching,  when  they  could  not  see  the  dying. 
None  had  grown  old  too  soon !     Stout,  stalwart  men, 
With  forms  erect,  not  bowed,  and  limbs  that  told 
Of  healthful  labor  giving  fullest  strength; 
Old  men,  and  youths  who  lifted  manly  brows 
And  honest  hearts  to  heaven;  gentle  women, 
On  whose  sweet  faces  writ  in  loving  smiles 
The  heart's  contentment  shone ;  light-hearted  girls, 
Whose  laughter  rippled  ever,  like  a  brook 
In  the  glad  summer-time ;  little  children, 
With  questioning  eyes  that  followed  you  alway, 
And  simple  trust  in  other  lovingness 
Unshadowed  by  a  doubt,  —  all  these  were  there, 
Soon  drawn  within  the  sacred  walls  of  stone 
By  the  clear  ring  of  bells. 

Sweet  were  the  sounds 
Of  murmured  chant  and  solemn  litany 
Through  the  old  arches  stealing  soft  and  clear. 
Then  carne  the  sermon.     No  belabored  theme 
(Half-quoted  from  the  ancient  fathers  too), 
Wherein  the  doctrines  of  the  Church  alone 
Were  text  and  sermon ;  but  a  simple  tale, 
That  suited  well  the  needs  of  those  who  heard ; 
For  "  unto  the  poor  the  gospel  is  preached." 
On  this  brief  text  the  blind  old  pastor  spake. 
No  ornate  periods  crowded  his  discourse ; 
Nor  show  of  empty  learning,  veiling  o'er 
The  gospel  truths  with  flowers.    Clear  and  plain, 
Yet  with  most  touching  earnestness,  he  told 
The  simple  tale  of  Bethlehem.     No  more ; 
Save  some  few  words  of  exhortation,  meet 
From  one  who  spake  as  unto  dying  men. 
Then  came  the  low-breathed  blessing.     Silently, 
As  those  who  have  some  solemn  need  of  thought, 
All  parted  to  their  homes,  —  throughout  the  week, 
Kept  purer  by  that  quiet  Sabbath  day, 
And  a  little  nearer  heaven ! 

Fifty  years 

Of  one  man's  lonely  life  had,  under  GOD, 
Made  all  these  rough  paths  smooth.    Yet  were  there  some 
Who  dared  to  call  this  life  a  wasted  one, 
For  that  the  world  knew  nothing  of  its  work, 


THE   LADY  ANNE.  295 

Nor  then,  nor  ever !    What  did  it  matter  ? 

He  gave  no  heed  to  the  world's  praise  or  blame. 

It  never  reached  him !     All  too  far  above 

Such  idle  murmurs  was  the  work  he  gave 

With  a  pure  heart  to  Heaven.    But  the  angels  saw, 

And  GOD  was  very  near ! 

This  life  of  work 

Had  its  rare  sweetnesses ;  redeeming  hours 
That  with  their  burthen  of  the  purest  joy 
Shed  a  long  brightness  o'er  the  days  to  come 
That  had  been  cheerless  else ;  and  gave  to  toil 
A  foretaste  of  fruition,  in  itself 
Outweighing  far  the  lives  of  many  men. 
Such  men  as  in  their  generation  die, 
And  leave  earth  nothing  but  a  rounded  grave 
And  a  little  dust  to  keep !     Worthless  dust, 
Not  clay  made  sweeter  by  the  rose's  breath, 
And  so  embalmed  for  heaven  !     A  life  of  work 
Had  been  our  blind  old  rector's ;  slow  and  sure 
As  is  the  labor  of  the  coral  worm, 
Rearing  'mid  ocean  depths  its  palace-halls, 
Counting  its  work  by  slowest  centuries, 
Each  grain  a  grave !  — yet  binding  at  the  last 
The  once  exultant  waters  with  a  band 
Of  all-enduring  stone;  till  in  the  face 
Of  the  proud  day,  a  little  isle  doth  rise 
As  Venus,  from  the  sea;  —  in  time  to  be 
An  emerald  on  the  waters,  and  a  home 
For  the  wild  sons  of  earth ;  —  in  GOD'S  own  hour 
Made  holy  by  the  hallowing  voice  of  prayer! 
Work  like  to  this  our  rector's  hand  had  wrought. 
So,  grain  by  grain,  cemented  fast  by  faith, 
Made  glorious  by  death  when  souls  had  passed 
"  In  the  sure  hope  of  heaven,"  he  builded  up 
A  little  church  within  those  arid  hills, 
And  made  life  sweet,  and  needful  labor  light; 
Until  the  valley  blossomed  as  the  rose, 
And  the  hills  were  green  with  beauty ;  the  earth 
Was  never  more  a  desert,  and  the  land 
Might  be  called  Beulah ! 

Earth  hath  some  names 
That  in  its  records  fill  a  world-wide  place ; 
Whose  old  renown  comes  to  us  through  the  years 
We  count  by  centuries.     Historic  shapes, 
The  world's  great  conquerors,  who  trod  the  Past 
With  still,  relentless  footsteps,  and  through  blood 
Went  up  red  steps  to  thrones !    Earth  claimeth,  too, 
The  nobler  heritage  of  her  gifted  ones. 


296  THE  LADY  ANNE. 

Bright  shadows  looming  through  a  night  of  years ; 

Their  pale  brows  wreathed  with  cypress  and  with  bay; 

Old  days  made  eloquent  by  their  burning  words 

That  sounded  onward  to  the  days  to  come, 

Bringing  them  nearer.     Sons  of  genius,  these 

Crowned  kings  of  the  highest  realms  of  thought ; 

Made  kinglier  by  the  years  that  only  bring 

Fresh  homage  and  allegiance  unto  them ! 

And  other  shapes  there  are,  —  with  lambent  brows, 

Not  throned  of  earth ;  but  purifled  by  fire 

From  taint  of  sin,  —  the  holy  martyr-band, 

The  aureola  crowned  of  Heaven  1 

But,  better  worth  than  these  —  more  holy  far  — 

Are  lives  of  good  men  who  make  ready  here 

The  pathways  of  our  Lord,  and  lead  one  soul 

From  earth's  dark  mazes  to  the  Better  Land. 

True  kings  are  they,  and  wide  the  realm  they  rule ; 

For  o'er  the  human  heart  and  erring  soul, 

Their  loving  hand  doth  hold  the  mastery 

With  a  most  winning  sway.     Yet,  meekly,  they 

Do  walk  the  earth;  and  our  poor  blinded  eyes, 

That  mark  the  stained  robe  and  marred  brow, 

See  not  the  real  whiteness  of  that  robe ; 

See  not  the  glory  ringing  the  pure  brow, 

Which  sealeth  each,  while  yet  they  are  of  earth, 

As  the  crowned  ones  of  heaven  !    They  came, 

Silently,  as  the  snow.    It  makes  no  stir ; 

Flake  after  flake  sinks  softly  through  the  air 

By  day  or  night,  and  the  swift  hours  count  them 

In  starry  myriads,  covering  the  earth 

As  with  a  bridal  veil ;  and  yet  a  shroud ; 

Since  in  its  downward  sweep  it  buries  all 

Impurities  of  earth,  and  in  its  fall 

Makes  fresh  and  pure  the  atom-laden  air. 

As  falls  the  snow,  so  the  earth's  holy  ones 

Come  unto  earth ;  with  their  so  loving  hands 

Making  its  rough  places  smooth  for  other  feet, 

The  while  their  own  do  tread  unfalteringly 

The  sharp  and  rugged  flints  that  leave  deep  wounds 

By  none  but  angels  tended !     In  our  lives 

Pale  ministers  of  joy,  their  shapes  do  stand, 

Holding  to  our  keen  lips  the  cup  made  sweet, 

We  never  ask  them  how;  though  it  may  be 

The  heart's  still  sacrifice  hath  bought  the  boon, 

And  our  poor  selfish  thirst  hath  been  allayed 

In  the  heart's  blood  of  one  who  loved  us  ! 


THE   LADY  ANNE.  297 

If  we  could  read  the  faces,  pale  and  still, 
Of  some  who  bear  us  company  on  our  way, 
So  learning  how  the  poor  heart  burns  beneath 
With  its  unanswered  longings;  would  we  give 
The  love  they  prayed  for  once,  but  never  now? 
We  know  not;  but  the  Past  replieth  "No !  " 
They  gave  us  all !     We  did  not  scorn  the  gift, 
But  took  it  as  our  right;  gave  nothing  back; 
Though  all  life's  sunshine  came  from  their  true  hands 
And  we  bask  in  it;  seeing  not  the  night 
They  clasp  so  closely  lest  its  shadow  fall 
Upon  our  pathway.     But  they  die,  some  day. 
GOD  taketh  back  his  angels,  and  our  lives 
Have  lost  their  sunshine ;  yet  we  think  not  why, 
And  only  moan  o'er  our  own  misery. 
Or  it  may  be  —  we  know  such  things  have  been  — 
Their  life's  deep  silence  was  a  mask  of  stone 
Which  death  hath  broken,  and  the  quiet  face, 
We  never  looked  on  lovingly,  shall  wear 
The  likeness  of  an  angel !    All  too  late 
We  learn  what  we  were  scorning.    All  too  late 
We  press  vain  kisses  on  the  poor  white  lips 
That  now  are  dumb  forever !    All  too  late, 
We  clasp  the  cold,  cold  hands  in  loving  fold, 
We  never  touched  when  living !     All  too  late 
We  dower  the  dead  with  love !    A  wasted  gift, 
That  wiuneth  nothing  from  the  silent  heart; 
A  vain  oblation  poured  upon  the  grave 
That  hath  no  voice  to  answer  our  wild  prayer; 
Though  some  sad  echo,  caught  from  other  graves, 
May  whisper  low,  "  Too  late ! " 

Too  late !  too  late ! 

The  old  sad  strain,  the  moan  which  human  hearts 
Must  utter  evermore,  — how  through  our  lives 
That  wail  goes  sounding,  shutting  out  sweet  hope 
As  we  had  buried  it,  and  set  the  seal 
Of  an  eternal  silence  on  its  grave ! 
We  hear  that  wail,  but  we  forget  it  ever, 
And  go  on  dreaming;  weaving  webs  so  bright, 
We  know  that  Fancy  must  have  stained  the  threads 
With  tintings  caught  from  the  rich  sunset  glow 
Of  an  autumnal  evening,  —  beautiful 
As  evanescent.    We  see  the  glory, 
And  hold  it  to  our  hearts,  forgetting  still 
That  all  the  beauty  of  the  passing  day 
But  veileth  o'er  its  dying;  that  the  night, 
With  its  dusk  shadows,  falleth,  as  a  pall 
Above  the  dead,  and  we  are  left  in  darkness. 


203  THE   LADY  ANNE. 

Darkness,  wherein  the  stars  may  dimly  shine 
To  guide  our  footsteps,  but  their  light  is  not 
The  radiant  glory  of  the  dying  day. 
And  to  our  vainly  longing  sight  they  seem 
But  as  the  lamps  which  lone  and  cold  do  burn 
In  some  old  sepulchre,  lighting  up  the  dead, 
And  making  some  pale  horror  visible 
Unto  our  shrinking  sight. 

Too  late  !  too  late  ! 

O  vanity  of  Hope !  since  that  dread  knell 
Strikes  sudden  on  our  hearts,  and  all  their  dreams 
Are  scattered  to  the  winds,  laid  low  in  dust,  — 
The  dust,  perchance,  of  some  forgotten  grave ! 
A  ship  was  sailing  on  a  summer  sea, 
With  pennants  flying  over  sails  as  white 
As  the  sea-gull's  wing.     Treasures  rich  and  rare, 
Brought  from  all  climes,  were  gathered  in  her  hold. 
More  costly  freightage  did  she  bear  also,  — 
A  hundred  human  souls !     The  land  was  near ; 
Another  day  must  bring  them  into  port ; 
And  some  were  dreaming  of  the  joy  to  come, 
The  sweet  reunion.     Others  count  the  gold 
Their  three  years'  toil  shall  reap.    The  night  came  clown, 
A  night  of  storm,  and  when  the  morning  broke, 
The  gallant  ship  was  gone  with  all  her  freight; 
And  the  sea  tells  no  tale  !     There  had  been  strife 
Between  old  friends ;  some  sharp  and  bitter  words, 
Spoken  in  anger,  severing  old  ties 
That  never  should  be  broken.     But  the  one 
Thought  in  his  heart,    "  This  quarrel  must  not  be ; 
We  will  be  friends  to-morrow !  "  and  the  morn 
Heard  but  the  tolling  of  the  passing-bell 
Low  knelling  out  "  Too  late !  "  There  had  been  love 
Equal  and  responsive.     But  parting  came, 
And  the  long  lapse  of  years  that  had  no  meeting,  — 
Sad  years,  whose  tale  was  told  by  dying  hopes, 
By  wild  and  passionate  tears,  whose  hot  drops  fell 
A  withering  blight  on  all  life's  sweetest  flowers, 
And  by  the  deadly  agony  of  doubt 
Wearing  the  life  away.     Time  will  not  lose 
One  shade  of  down  from  off  his  mighty  wings 
For  all  earth's  breaking  hearts !     So  the  long  years 
Crept  on  apace.    Out  in  the  busy  world 
Men  toil  and  strive,  and  in  the  eager  rush 
And  endless  stir  of  traffic  or  of  fame, 
Forget  who  waiteth  by  a  lonely  hearth, 
Watching  through  many  years  !     The  years  go  on. 
World-weary  at  "the  last,  men  turn  their  steps 


THE   LADY  ANNE.  299 

To  the  old  familiar  paths,  and  hope  to  find 
The  same  sweet  face  smile  on  them  as  of  yore. 
Too  late !  too  late !     Another  guest  they  find, 
Who  hath  played  wooer  all  these  many  years, 
And  will  not  now  be  cheated.     Death  is  there, 
And  waiting  for  his  bride !     Could  they  bring  back 
The  years  they  now  know  wasted !  —  silent  years 
That  came,  and  went,  and  found  their  love  grown  cold. 
Long  years  to  one  who  waited !  now  they  bring 
Unto  their  hearts  a  vengeance  swift  and  sure 
For  all  their  tarrying.     They  have  returned. 
Too  late !  too  late !     Life's  tide  is  running  out,  — 
The  sands  of  Death  lie  bare ! 

Poor  human  love, 

That  fain  would  have  life  linger  when  too  late, 
And  sees  the  boon  so  coveted  for  years 
Eluding  its  warm  grasp;  plucked  thence  in  haste 
By  the  swift  doom  that  dallied  heretofore, 
But  will  not  now  delay,  though  life  hath  grown 
So  strangely  dear  to  us.     Too  late !  too  late ! 
And  so  the  tale  is  ended ;  for  the  grave 
Reveals  no  secrets.     All  our  love  is  dumb 
Before  that  silence  which  no  sound  shall  break 
Until  the  trump  of  Judgment;  when  a  voice 
Shall  say  to  earth,  and  sea,  and  utmost  hell 
"  Give  up  your  dead !  "    Heaven  grant  that  in  that  day 
Our  shuddering  souls  hear  not  for  final  doom 

THE  ALL  TOO  LATE  OF  GOD  ! 

As  one  who  roams 

Hither  and  thither,  turning  at  his  will 
Down  every  diverse  path;  for  that  it  seems 
Fair  in  his  eyes,  or  leadeth  to  some  spot 
In  the  old  time  most  dear  to  him ;  so  I 
Turn  ever  from  the  straight  course  of  this  tale, 
Wandering  in  fields  of  thought.    Pardon,  dear  Mends, 
An  old  man's  lingering.     Not  many  days 
Looks  he  to  And  in  the  coming  future. 
So  the  Past  makes  stronger  its  enchantments ; 
He  cannot  break  their  spell.     And  then,  you  know, 
Old  age  is  garrulous,  must  have  its  say, 
And  take  its  own  time  in  the  telling  of  it. 
But  the  end  cometh  soon  enough !     Old  days 
Are  haunting  me;  pale  memories  of  joys 
That  would  not  tarry;  and  the  old  man's  heart 
Is  sadly  weary,  pining  for  the  rest 
Earth  cannot  bring  to  him. 

There  came  a  day 
When  Morven's  lady  wept  most  blinding  tears 


300  THE   LADY  ANNE. 

O'er  the  old  rector's  grave.     The  only  friend 
The  Past  had  given  to  her  quiet  life 
Had  been  taken  home  by  GOD  ;  and  she  was  left 
Alone  amid  her  people.     Though  they  shared 
In  her  deep  grief,  and  sought  in  their  rude  way 
To  comfort  her,  she  could  but  give  them  thanks. 
They  did  not  know,  and  could  not  understand, 
How  very  lonely  was  the  Lady  Anne 
In  the  old  halls  they  thought  so  beautiful. 
Perchance  they  envied  her;  not  dreaming  once 
That  they  so  rich  in  all  sweet  household  ties 
Could  be  the  envied  of  the  Lady  Anne. 
Yet  so  it  was.     Poor  child !  she  was  so  young 
To  strive  with  vain  tears,  and  with  loneliness, 
Most  bitter  pang  of  all !     And  in  her  pain 
She  almost  prayed  for  death.     His  coining  then 
Had  been  most  welcome. 

We  moan  o'er  changes ; 
We  do  not  fancy  they  can  bring  us  joy ; 
The  very  word  seems  ringing  out  a  knell. 
Yet  in  whatever  shape  or  guise  they  come 
GOD  sendeth  them  as  blessings.     They  may  seem 
As  giant-shadows  looming  dark  and  stern 
In  the  far  horizon,  presaging  ill ; 
A  thunder-cloud  of  fate,  that  yet  shall  break 
A  summer-shower  on  our  path  of  life 
Bidding  the  flowers  bloom !    Perchance  they  wear 
The  aspect  of  an  angel,  and  our  hearts 
Go  forth  to  meet  a  visitant  so  fair, 
And  bring  it  home  with  triumph  and  with  song 
As  the  reapers  bring  their  sheaves !    But  our  guest 
Flings  off  the  smiling  mask,  and  in  its  stead 
A  face  looks  out  upon  us,  terrible, 
Turning  our  hearts  to  stone.     Or  else  the  change 
May  be,  of  all  earth-changes,  holiest. 
A  pure  heart  passing  from  this  world  of  sin,  — 
A  soul  returning  to  Its  native  heaven; 
And  then  the  GOD  who  taketh,  giveth  too ; 
Since  for  the  loss  of  earth,  we  have  a  friend 
Awaiting  us  in  heaven.     O  happy  friend ! 
Whose  chains  are  broken,  and  for  whom  the  earth, 
Our  prison  yet,  hath  never  more  a  place. 
We  should  not  weep,  but  rather,  bless  our  GOD 
Who  taketh  home  his  own,  and  giveth  us 
A  blessing  in  the  stead  of  that  we've  lost ; 
And  giveth  upbraiding  not ! 

So  a  change 
Came  o'er  the  dreaming  of  sweet  Lady  Anne ; 


THE   LADY  ANNE.  301 

And  Morven's  halls  were  all  astir  with  life. 

Fair  forms,  and  stately,  with  most  queenly  grace 

Swept  through  the  corridors,  adowii  the  steps 

Of  the  long,  silent  house ;  which  echoed  now 

To  low  laughs  musical,  and  silvery  tones 

Of  young,  fresh  voices,  or  the  light,  firm  tread 

Of  youth's  swift  footsteps ;  feet  that  knew  not  yet 

The  slow,  dull  measure  of  a  heavy  heart 

Like  beat  of  muffled  drums.     I,  too,  was  there; 

Won  from  the  lone  and  quiet  rectory 

By  the  still  glamour  of  some  soft,  brown  eyes 

That  ever  smiled  upon  me;  greeting  thus 

The  only  nephew  of  her  oldest  friend,  — 

The  friend  whose  dust  was  lying  far  away 

On  the  green  hill-side  by  some  other  dust,— 

The  dust  that  he  had  given  unto  earth 

Full  fifty  years  ago. 

I  spoke  of  changes. 

Lady  Anne  was  changed ;  and  the  lonely  heart 
Basked  in  the  sunshine  of  its  loving  self, 
Made  wide  its  doors,  and  gave  large  space  and  room 
Unto  the  aunt  and  cousins,  but  just  come 
From  far-off  London.     They  were  all  her  own 
(I  mean  the  little  lady  fancied  so), 
And  with  sweet  lavishness  she  gave  to  them 
The  love  which  had  lain  dormant  all  these  years. 
What  gave  they  in  return?     Some  empty  words 
That  had  no  meaning,  but  they  sounded  sweet 
To  that  poor,  thirsting  heart ;  and  Anne  gave  back 
No  stinted  measure  from  her  own  full  love ; 
Its  tide  was  at  the  flood.     Their  hearts  had  none. 
I  scanned  them  all ;  yea,  read  them  through  and  through, 
And  saw  but  stagnant  pools,  where  other  eyes 
Found  only  fairest  flowers. 

I  would  the  gift 

Of  reading  hearts  had  never  come  to  me  ! 
For  it  brought  bitterness  and  vain  regret ; 
And  a 'wild,  passionate  longing  but  to  save 
When  I  was  powerless.    Nay,  could  not  lift 
One  warning  finger  to  avert  the  blow 
I  saw  must  fall  too  soon.    And  when  it  fell, 
My  prescient  soul  knew  what  must  follow  too. 
The  dim  hereafter  was  not  dim  to  me. 
Would  GOD  I  had  been  blind ! 

These  cousins  came 

From  out  a  world  most  unlike  to  our  own,  — 
The  world  of  London ;  bringing  thence  false  smiles 
And  falser  souls ;  their  very  life  a  lie 


302  THE   LADY  ANNE. 

Made  up  of  borrowed  virtues.    Hear  them  talk 

And  you  had  thought  the  angels  scarce  could  be 

So  pure  in  heart.     And  they  were  beautiful. 

Men  called  them  so.     A  college  friend  of  mine 

Trod  one  brief  measure  with  the  stateliest ; 

Went  mad  for  her  pale  beauty,  and  so  died. 

I  never  met  her,  but  his  shadow  seemed 

To  come  between  her  and  the  light  of  day ; 

The  pale,  sweet  face  that  only  woke  her  scorn, 

The  true,  pure  heart  she  only  trampled  on ; 

And,  knowing  this,  I  never  looked  on  her 

But  he  was  there.     Her  sister  had  a  laugh 

That  charmed  your  senses  like  a  siren's  song; 

But  on  her  brow  I  saw  the  leprous  taint,  — 

Her  mother's  legacy  of  sin  and  shame,  — 

And  over  me  the  siren-spell  fell  harmless. 

They  knew  that  they  had  beauty,  and  they  made 

Men's  hearts  their  playthings ;  in  such  torturing  wise 

As  I  have  seen  Grimalkin  with  a  mouse, 

Tossing  it  to  and  fro  with  velvet  paws, 

But  never  letting  it  go !     Richard  Leigh 

Was  brother  unto  these.     Not  over-young, 

But  handsome;  with  a  low,  musical  voice, 

Might  wile  your  heart  away  before  you  knew 

The  little  thing  was  gone.     He  won  not  mine; 

I  knew  him  all  too  well.     There  had  been  days 

In  the  old  cottage  life,  when  we  had  met, 

And  not  as  brothers.     In  that  boyish  strife 

I  had  been  victor.     When  we  met  again, 

I  saw  within  his  eyes  the  treasured  hate, 

A  snake  in  act  to  spring !     Not  yet  had  come 

The  destined  hour,  but  from  the  serpent's  coil 

Tlie  watchful  eyes  were  gleaming  evermore. 

I  marked  the  gleam,  but  soon  forgot  it  quite; 

For  I  was  dreaming  such  a  blissful  dream. 

The  awakening  was  not  yet. 

And  these  — 

A  fitting  trio  —  were  the  friends  beloved 
Of  gentle  Lady  Anne.     She  did  not  know 
What  hollow  masks  those  smiling  faces  were, 
And  I  had  never  right  to  tear  them  off. 
I  was  the  parish  rector,  poor  and  plain, 
And  they  were  rich  and  courtly,  —  cousins,  too, 
And  more,  she  loved  them !     I  knew  this  too  well, 
So  could  not  dim  her  trust  with  one  dark  fear 
That  kept  me  on  the  rack.     I  was  a  man, 
And  strong  and  patient.    I  could  better  bear 
The  torturing  doubts  that  would  have  made  her  life 


THE   LADY  ANNE.  303 

The  shadow  of  an  hour !     So  I  kept 

That  cold  suspense,  that  agony  of  dread, 

With  a  strong  hand,  silent.     It  mattered  not 

That  in  so  doing  I  had  bound  myself, 

Prometheus-like,  unto  a  slow,  sure  doom 

That  made  life  terrible.     It  was  to  be ; 

I  saw  that  long  ago.     And  when  I  stood 

Within  the  church's  porch,  a  priest  of  GOD, 

I  knew  I  had  laid  down,  and  evermore, 

The  sweetnesses  of  life,  and  taken  up 

An  unseen  cross,  shrining  it  in  my  heart. 

It  did  not  make  me  sorrowful  and  stern. 

Life  spread  before  me  as  a  furrowed  field, 

And  in  that  field  I  had  some  work  to  do. 

Was  I  not  a  laborer  in  the  vineyard? 

The  spirit  that  burned  in  me  was  made  glad 

In  the  pure  temple-service ;  but  my  heart 

Throbbed  with  a  fever  caught  from  earth  not  heaven; 

And  I  —  it  matters  not.     A  little  time,  — 

A  few  more  days  of  earth  and  earthly  pain,  — 

And  I  shall  fold  my  hands  in  sleep,  and  be 

At  rest  forever. 

O  Anne !  little  Anne  ! 

When  your  soft  fingers  nestled  in  my  hand 
With  such  a  quiet  trust,  filling  my  heart 
With  wild  dreams,  wilder  hopes,  you  little  thought 
That  I  might  love  you  other  than  a  friend. 
You  called  me " brother"  once,  and  in  that  name 
Gave  me  a  corner  of  your  loving  heart, 
But  nothing  more.     I  should  have  been  content ; 
And  might  have  been,  but  for  the  stinging  pain 
That  stabbed  me  through  and  through,  when  Richard 

Leigh 

Stole  shadowy  to  your  side.     You  were  not  used 
To  such  soft  wooing,  and  your  guileless  heart 
Took  such  shy,  trembling  pleasure  in  it  all, 
You  did  not  know  that  all  those  low-breathed  words 
Were  worse  than  nothing,  —  only  meant  to  win 
The  hand  that  brought  wealth  with  it.     For  the  heart,  — 
"  It  was  a  thing  not  reckoned  in  his  world, 
So  counted  out ;  and  love  was  but  a  word 
That  had  no  meaning;  only  met  in  books, 
Or  in  low  parlance  of  rude  country  swains, 
That  nothing  knew  of  life."    This  Richard  Leigh  — 
I  read  him  like  a  book  —  was  not  a  man 
Of  true  impulses,  or  of  earnest  faith. 
No  credo  trembled  on  his  full-curved  lips 
When  others  spoke  of  woman  or  of  heaven. 


304  THE   LADY  ANNE. 

He  mocked  at  both,  yet  summoned  evermore 

Their  whole  vocabulary  at  his  will ; 

Arid  talked  so  finely,  with  such  fitting  phrase 

(A  saint  had  never  done  it  half  so  well), 

I  marvel  not  he  won  the  Lady  Anne. 

Poor,  simple  dove !  what  should  she  know  of  guile? 

The  serpent  eyes  looked  lovingly  on  her. 

She  never  saw  their  gleam  when  they  met  mine ; 

.Nor  marked  the  secret  venom  of  the  words 

That  unto  her  were  music.     "Well  I  knew 

What  veiled  their  poison  with  such  wealth  of  flowers. 

She  loved  him  !  and  her  love  did  wrap  him  round 

As  with  a  mantle  goodly  to  behold, 

Transforming  the  deformed,  till,  in  her  eyes, 

He  grew  unto  the  stature  of  a  man, 

The  likeness  of  an  angel ! 

O  young  Love ! 

They  did  not  err  who  pictured  thee  as  blind ; 
Yea,  bound  thine  eyes  so  no  one  ray  of  light  — 
And  truth  is  light  —  could  reach  the  heart  through  them. 
O  Love  so  sweet !  how  in  thy  world  of  spring 
The  flowers  bloom  eternal,  and  the  sun 
Knoweth  no  clouding !     Only  in  the  dreams 
Of  later  years  doth  such  rare  sunshine  smile, 
A  golden  mockery ;  but  in  thy  world 
Its  glory  is  a  thing  of  every  day, 
And  hath  no  fading.     In  thy  summer-land 
There  are  no  shadows  of  a  coining  winter, 
No  tokens  of  decay.     Leaves  do  not  fall, 
Nor  flowers  wither.     Once,  only,  in  our  lives, 
May  our  poor  feet  tread  that  enchanted  ground ! 
And  then  —  and  then  —  ourselves  do  break  the  spell. 
We  weary  of  its  sameness,  launch  our  bark 
Upon  the  waters  that  do  guard  its  shores, 
And  with  one  breath  of  change  do  fill  the  sails. 
Away !  Away !  Life's  ocean  bears  us  on, 
And  the  wild  storms  gather !    We  must  brave  them  now, 
And  meet  and  conquer,  or  be  conquered  there ! 
The  world  of  sunshine  we  have  left  was  left 
Forever !    Life  hath  no  returning  tide, 
And  but  one  haven,  —  Death ! 

O  Richard  Leigh, 

If  in  the  old  sweet  time  when  we  were  boys, 
Ere  envy  did  breed  strife,  and  strife  wild  hate, 
Your  bark  had  started  on  that  unknown  sea, 
And  sailed  unto  that  haven ;  there  would  be 
Some  broken  hearts  the  less  upon  GOD'S  earth ; 
Less  wealth  of  cursing  too ;  and  you  had  gone 


1IIE   LADY  ANNE.  305 

With  a  whiter  soul  to  heaven.     But  now?  — now? 
One  year  ago  I  saw  a  queenly  form 
Within  a  coffin  lying,  shrouded,  pale, 
The  heart  at  rest  forever,  and  I  knew 
That  your  false  tongue  had  spoken  falser  words, 
Winning  love  "  only  for  something  to  say." 
It  was  a  most  rare  jest,  — a  pleasant  theme 
For  mockery  and  sport,  —  how  you  had  won 
A  thing  you  cared  not  for,  —  the  guarded  heart 
Of  one  so  proud  and  cold.    You  told  it,  too, 
Amid  your  boon  companions,  with  light  scorn 
Of  woman's  loving.     Oh  !  it  was  well  done ! 
And  she  ?     She  heard  of  it,  but  gave  no  sign. 
A  month  or  so  did  bring  her  marriage-morn, 
But  never  bridal  night.     When  the  stars  shone 
They  left  her  lying,  in  her  bridal  robes, 
In  a  dimly-lighted  chamber.     Close  beside 
Were  the  watchers  of  the  dead  !     She  had  been 
Struck  down  by  death  at  the  very  altar. 
Some  heart-disease,  they  said ;  but  clearer  eyes 
Laid  that  swift  doom  at  your  door,  Richard  Leigh ! 

I  mind  me  too,  of  one  night,  cold  and  drear. 
I  was  in  London.     All  the  streets  were  white 
With  a  new-fallen  snow,  whereon  the  moon 
Was  shining  pale  through  clouds.     Slow,  at  my  feet, 
The  sluggish  river  swept  unrestingly ; 
Moaning  beneath  the  arches,  massive,  dark, 
That  spanned  the  darker  stream.     A  shadow  passed ; 
A  light  shape  flashed  upon  the  parapet ; 
A  plash  of  sullen  waters,  closing  slow 
Above  a  woman's  form.     Then  came  a  stir, 
A  rush  of  eager  footsteps,  and  the  sound 
Of  oars  upon  the  water,  swift  to  save, 
But  all  too  late  for  life.     They  brought  to  shore 
A  slight  form  drooping  strangely,  limp  and  wan, 
And  sought  to  bring  back  life,  but  all  in  vain. 
Some  red  drops  oozing  through  the  white,  white  lips, 
Were  the  sole  record  of  a  broken  heart 
Save  some  few  lines  clenched  in  the  little  hand. 
You  were  the  writer,  Richard  Leigh ! 

Poor  child ! 

I  see  her  now  as  I  did  see  her  then, 
The  white  face  turned  upward  unto  heaven,  — 
The  heaven  that  late  did  seem  as  brass  to  her,  — 
The  long,  wet  hair  low  trailing  in  the  dust ; 
And,  while  I  gazed,  a  voice  amid  the  crowd 
Called  loudly  "  Alice  Hurst !  "    How  the  name  thrilled 
20 


306  THE  LADY  ANtfE. 

On  every  ear !  for  the  dead  answer  not, 

And  none  replied,  save  in  the  making  room 

For  a  man  to  pass.     With  swift  foot  he  carne, 

And  paused  beside  the  dead ;  a  cold,  strange  dread, 

A  vague,  dark  horror  curdling  in  his  eyes, 

And  whitening  his  lips,  while  through  it  all 

A  hope  seemed  lingering  uncertainly. 

It  fled  at  once,  when  at  his  feet  he  saw 

The  pale,  cold  features  of  the  drowned  girl. 

"O  Alice  Hurst!"  he  said,  "sweet  Alice  Hurst! 

Thou  liest  there,  poor  lass,  and  I  have  sought 

For  thee  through  all  this  cruel  London-town. 

I  would  the  daisies  had  been  growing  white 

Above  thee  long  ago,  when  thou  wert  yet 

A  little  sinless  child.     A  sinless  child ! 

Ay,  there's  the  sting!     O  Alice,  Alice  Hurst! 

What  shall  I  say  to  thy  poor  mother,  lass  ? 

She  was  so  proud  of  thee !  "  — 

AVith  clenched  hands, 

And  many  a  wild  oath,  he  looked  to  heaven, 
And  cursed  you,  Richard  Leigh !     A  deeper  curse 
Was  in  the  silence  of  the  poor,  weak  heart 
That  you  had  spoiled  and  broken  in  your  last. 

GOD  pardon  her,  poor  child ;  for  she  went  mad, 
When  all  her  sin  did  look  her  in  the  face, 
So  sought  a  hiding  in  the  cold  deep  stream, 
And  found  in  it  the  grave.     GOD  pardon  her! 
I  trust  he  will;  but  I,  a  priest  of  GOD, 
Stretch  no  absolving  hands  o'er  Richard  Leigh. 
For  in  mine  eyes,  wrong-doing  like  to  his 
Is  a  swift  road  to  hell;  and  I  believe 
In  everlasting  death !     GOD'S  power  is  great, 
And  infinite  his  goodness  ;  but  he  hates 
And  will  not  look  upon  iniquity. 
And,  falter  as  we  may  with  life's  great  truths, 
There  comes  a  day  that  giveth  dust  to  dust, 
"  And  after  death  the  judgment." 

In  the  eyes 

Of  the  hard  world  such  sin  as  Richard  Leigh's 
Is  but  a  very  little  thing  at  most, 
And  leaves  no  stigma.     But  the  woman,  stained 
By  his  light  sin,  is  dowered  with  a  curse ; 
Flung  out  to  scorn  and  all  contumely ; 
Henceforth  the  lost  Pariah  of  her  race. 
Men  crown  the  tempter ;  but  the  tempted,  fallen, 
Doth  lie  too  low  for  aught  save  trampling  feet. 
A  woman's  soul  should  be  as  white  as  snow, 


THE   LADY  ANNE.  307 

Her  hand  should  bear  the  lily ;  and  I  hold 

A  man  should  be  as  pure  ere  he  can  take 

That  white  soul  unto  his  in  marriage-bonds. 

But  is  it  so?    How  speaks  the  social  law? 

The  sin  that  bows  a  woman  to  the  dust 

Is  venial  in  a  man ;  no  sin  at  all ! 

Strange  contradiction !     In  mine  eyes  there  lies 

Night's  added  blackness  on  the  guilt  of  man, 

No  self-forgetting  love  redeems  his  sin ; 

No  bitter  shame  brings  pale  repentance  home ; 

For  jibe  and  jest  are  sequence  of  his  crime. 

But  GOD  sees  otherwise.     One  broken  law 

Dishonors  all  the  ten.     In  the  old  time 

GOD  said,  —  "  The  soul  that  sinneth,  it  shall  die." 

Is  the  law  obsolete  ?    HE  hath  said  it, 

"With  whom  there  is  no  variableness, 

Neither  shadow  of  turning."  —  Penitence 

May  open  wide,  closed  doors.     Persistent  sin 

May  not  so  much  as  see  the  golden  gates, 

It  dwells  so  far  away.     And  for  such  sin 

"  There  is  no  more  remission." 

Daisies  grow 

Above  the  broken  heart  of  Alice  Hurst; 
And  wild  birds  sing,  where  by  the  river-side 
They  left  her  lying  in  her  nameless  grave. 
But  a  man's  wrung  heart  still  crieth  "  Vengeance  " 
For  the  sharp  wrong  that  made  life  dark  to  him 
And  very  terrible. '   While,  far  away 
Two  hearts  that  tremble  on  life's  utmost  verge 
Are  slowly  breaking  o'er  the  sin  and  shame 
Of  her  o'er  whom  the  daisy-blooms  are  white ; 
And  yet  they  do  not  curse  you,  Richard  Leigh ! 
The  old  man  readeth  from  the  Holy  Book 
The  words  of  Him  who  died  upon  the  Cross, 
And  learns  the  lesson  of  forgiveness. 
The  gentle  wife,  with  her  meek  woman-heart 
Forgiveth  the  deep  wrong,  low  praying  GOD 
For  mercy  on  her  Alice,  dead  and  gone. 
And  so  they  do  not  curse  you,  Richard  Leigh ! 
But,  when  they  die,  their  quiet  graves  shall  be 
Accusing  spirits  in  the  eye  of  heaven. 
How  will  you  meet  them,  Richard  Leigh? 

I  know 

The  world  speaks  lightly  of  the  sin  that  gave 
Poor  Alice  Hurst  an  early,  self-sought  doom. 
But  this  same  world  forgetteth  evermore 
How  vast  a  circle  one  small  pebble  makes ! 
They  mark  the  pebble's  fall,  but  never  pause 


308  THE   LADY  ANNE. 

To  trace  the  ring  that  widens  from  its  grave. 

A  rumor  tells  the  crime.    Unto  the  world 

It  lives  and  dies,  the  ephemera  of  an  hour. 

But  the  sad  sequence  is  a  thing  untold, 

Though  it  be  written  on  all  after  years 

Of  some  poor  hearts  of  earth ;  deep  stencilled  there 

By  such  sharp  agony  of  bitter  shame 

As  ages  more  than  years.     The  heedless  world 

Recks  nothing  of  all  this,  and  doth  not  care. 

But  unto  our  GOD  belongeth  vengeance. 

He  keepeth  all  our  tears ! 

Too  much  of  this. 

Since  life  hath  nobler  themes  for  woven  words 
Than  such  a  shadow  as  was  Richard  Leigh. 
But  in  my  life  he  was  the  fatal  woof 
That  darkened  o'er  the  else  so  shining  web. 
What  if  my  love  did  never  win  return? 
I  knew  it  must  be  so,  and  was  content. 
But,  little  Anne,  if  by  a  life  of  pain 
I  could  have  shielded  you  from  aught  of  ill, 
My  heart  had  borne  the  burthen  smilingly. 
It  was  not  so  to  be ! 

A  friend  was  ill, 

And  willed  me  to  be  near  when  he  should  pass 
Through  the  dark  vale.     I  could  not  say  him  nay. 
We  had  been  friends  when  life's  long  vista  spread 
Before  our  eyes  untravelled ;  when  its'  morn 
Smiled  fair  and  radiant,  and  its  golden  light 
Fell  fresh  and  glorous  on  the  far  To  Be. 
School-mates  at  first,  then  college- friends  were  we. 
All  life  had  known  of  early  sweetnesses ; 
Its  careless  smiles,  and  charm  of  laughter  clear; 
The  boy's  dear  triumphs,  and  the  scholar's  joy,  — 
Had  still  been  shared  between  us.     Never  time 
That  left  a  shadow  twixt  his  heart  and  mine. 
I  could  not  fail  him  now !     And  so  I  went, 
No  shadow  of  the  future  following  me. 
I  buried,  for  the  time,  all  thoughts  of  self; 
I  shut  out  memories  of  sweet  Lady  Anne ; 
Relived  the  past ;  and  all  to  pleasure  one 
Whose  life  was  fading  like  a  gathered  flower ; 
And  I  had  my  reward.     He  passed  away 
Calmly  as  an  infant  to  the  Better  Land ; 
And  the  Dark  Valley  was  not  dark  to  him ! 

Time  is  no  laggard  in  his  onward  flight, 
Nor  stays  his  wings  for  moan  of  dying  men. 


THE   LADY  ANNE. 

The  summons  came  in  the  month  of  roses ; 
But  the  harvest-moon  shone  white  on  Morven 
When  next  I  stood  within  mine  own  old  home. 
I  knew  not  why ;  it  did  not  seem  the  same. 
There  was  a  sorrow  brooding-  by  the  hearth ; 
A  phantom  of  a  voice  that  seemed  to  say 
"  No  more,  forever!  "  but  I  scarcely  heard. 
I  slept  that  night  as  sinless  children  sleep ; 
Yet  woke  upon  the  morrow  with  a  sense 
Of  something-  gone  from  me ;  I  knew  not  what. 
The  morning  brought  the  revelation  home. 
Why  do  I  linger?  since  it  must  be  told. 
For,  wooed  and  won  in  that  brief  summer-time, 
The  Lady  Anne  was  wife  to  Richard  Leigh ! 
And  I,  GOD  help  me !  —  but  I  wished  the  earth, 
That  yesterday  was  heaped  on  Alleyne's  grave, 
Had  covered  me  from  sight  and  memory. 

A  spirit  of  unrest  did  haunt  me  long, 
A  weary  wandering  to  each  spot  beloved 
Where  she  had  lingered,  in  the  olden  time, 
That  was  so  fair  to  me.     The  old,  sweet  time 
When  I  was  dreaming  a  wild,  foolish  dream 
Of  clear  brown  eyes  that  never  turned  away, 
Nor  looked  on  me  in  anger.     All  earth  grew 
Transfigured  at  her  presence,  as  if  she 
Were  some  immortal  of  the  days  of  eld 
Descended  from  the  skies.     Nevermore 
That  quiet  presence  may  my  coming  wait ; 
He  standeth  us  between.     O  foolish  heart ! 
Too  like  some  heedless  mariner  who  goes  forth 
With  favoring  breezes  on  an  unknown  sea. 
Gladly  he  saileth  o'er  the  waters  wide, 
But,  in  mid  course  arrested,  finds  his  bark 
Is  wrecked  and  broken  on  some  hidden  rock, 
go  j}  —  what  doth  it  matter?    Life  is  long, 
And  the  sharp  pang  endures  not.    Time  doth  steep 
All  human  agony  in  its  Lethean  stream ; 
Whence  it  ariseth,  calm  and  very  still ; 
Transformed,  transfigured,  till  the  changed  shape 
Of  our  life-passion  weareth  Duty's  mould. 
A  changed  shape,  indeed ;  of  gravest  mien 
And  pale  cold  features ;  but  it  seemeth  still 
A  darkened  reflex  of  the  face  beloved ; 
A  shadow  of  the  shape  forever  gone. 
So  the  pale  Duty  takes  the  place  of  Love, 
And  life  is  not  so  lonely  as  we  thought, 
Nor  its  full  cup  so  bitter.    GOD  is  good, 


309 


310 


THE   LADY  ANNE. 


And  trieth  not  our  weakness  overmuch ; 

Since  with  the  burthen  comes  the  strength  also. 

And  if  the  harvest  that  our  hands  must  reap, 

And  if  the  work  GOD  giveth  us  to  do, 

Be  other  than  we  hoped,  so  let  it  be. 

Why  should  we  murmur,  when  he  knoweth  best 

What  kind  of  work  is  nearest  to  our  needs ; 

What  field  most  fitting  for  his  hosts  to  reap? 

And  in  our  blindness  we  can  only  say, 

"  His  will  be  done  !  " 

Not  in  a  moment's  space 

Came  this  full  truth  to  me,  nor  yet  in  months ; 
But  it  was  mine  —  a  holy,  living  truth  — 
Long  ere  I  saw  the  Lady  Anne  again. 
Morven  was  orphaned  of  its  gentle  liege 
Ere  "  earth  to  earth  "  was  spoken  o'er  the  grave 
Of  Everard  Alley ne.     Years  had  gone  by  — 
Some  half  a  score  or  more  —  when  next  she  came 
To  the  old  happy  home,  bereft  so  long. 
The  years  that  intervened  had  brought  me  peace. 
I  dared  not  ask  how  they  had  gone  with  her; 
I  feared  the  answering.     On  her  pure  brow 
So  white,  so  smooth,  a  shadow  lingered  dark ; 
And  on  her  lips  a  trouble  trembled  aye. 
I  questioned  nought,  for  I  could  read  her  face 
More  clearly  than  my  own  unquiet  heart. 
Poor  child !  poor  child !     I  knew  how  all  these  years 
Her  heart's  love  had  been  dying,  —  wounded,  worn, 
Until  but  phantoms  of  its  old  self  came 
To  haunt  her  lonely  heart,  —  a  mockery 
Of  that  bright  morn,  when,  as  a  bride,  she  gave 
Its  untouched  wealth  of  love  to  Richard  Leigh, 
In  fullest  trust,  —  no  reservation  there ! 
How  had  he  worn  the  gift  ?     As  a  light  toy, 
The  cared-for  of  an  hour,  but  flung 'aside 
With  that  hour's  fading ;   as  a  gathered  flower, 
Plucked  for  its  beauty  and  its  fragrance  once, 
Then  cast  away,  with  no  thought  following  it, 
And  left  unto  forgetfulness  and  the  Past, 
With  never  resurrection ! 

Little  Anne, 

You  came  to  me  as  in  the  days  long  past ; 
And  brought  your  only  child  to  greet  the  friend 
You  had  not  buried  with  those  weary  years. 
He  was  a  noble  boy,  with  sunny  eyes 
Unshadowed  and  serene.     A  fair,  broad  brow, 
Most  like  his  mother's ;  but  no  sorrow  there 
Had  set  its  pallid  seal,  or  pressed  lines 


THE   LADY  ANNE.  311 

With  stencil  deep ;  and  on  the  arching  lips 
A  pride  sat  crescent ;  shown  in  boyish  scorn 
Of  little  meannesses.     Not  one  line  there 
Betrayed  the  father,  for  the  child  was  heir 
Of  Morven's  stately  race  and  stainless  name. 
How  proud  she  was  of  him !  and  loving  too ; 
As  her  whole  life  were  garnered  in  her  boy, 
And  she  had  nothing  else. 

Too  true !  too  true ! 

For  she  had  nothing  else.     Dark  Richard  Leigh 
Had  been  struck  down  in  some  wild  midnight  fray,  — 
A  private  vengeance  (and  my  thought  went  back 
Unto  dead  Alice  Hurst)  ;  and  Anne  had  been 
For  some  brief  months  a  widow.     She  came  home 
No  more  to  leave  fair  Morven  ;  but  its  halls 
Were  strangely  desolate.     The  old-time  mirth 
Was  gone  forever,  and  the  Lady  Anne 
Found  never  one  familiar  face  among 
The  servants  of  to-day.     Death  had  gathered 
That  household  to  himself.     They  were  at  rest 
Beneath  the  shadows  of  the  ancient  trees 
Around  the  old  chapelle,  and  every  heart 
That  watched  above  her  childhood  lovingly 
Had  throbbed  its  last  of  earth.     She  missed,  also, 
The  quiet  greeting  of  some  humble  friends 
Whom  GOD  had  taken  home,  ere  yet  her  feet 
Were  treading  England's  earth.     Those  weary  years, 
That  found  and  left  her  on  a  foreign  shore, 
Had  been  most  changeful,  and  her  pained  heart 
Found  no  old  pleasure  in  the  coming  home. 
She  had  been  gone  too  long.     The  years  that  turned 
Her  wifely  love  to  dry  and  bitter  dust 
Had  been  as  busy  round  her  childhood's  home ; 
And  graves  were  growing  green,  where  not  one  sod 
Had  broken  been  the  morn  she  was  a  bride. 
And  the  still  sleepers,  —  were  they  not  the  same 
Whose  hands  flung  flowers  on  her  wedding-day  ? 
Whose  lips  breathed  blessings,  and  whose  loving  hearts 
Had  followed  her  alway?    Could  this  be  so? 
She  had  forgotten  how  life's  sands  run  out, 
And  that  its  stream  hath  no  returning  tide, 
And  looked  to  find  no  change,  —  at  least  in  home. 
How  could  it  change  to  her? 

O  change !  change !  change ! 
The  sweetest  and  the  bitterest  thing  in  life. 
A  very  Proteus  in  thy  thousand  forms, 
Mocking  the  lights  and  shadows  of  this  earth. 
Now,  robed  in  sunshine,  harbinger  of  joy,  — 


312  THE   LADY  ANNE. 

Now,  trailing  garments  of  the  deepest  night, 
The  sure  avatar  of  impending  doom. 
As  fickle  and  unstable  as  the  breeze; 
Only  the  same  in  —  change ! 

No  question  here 

Of  why  or  wherefore,  since  GOD  wills  it  so ; 
And  what  hath  been  must  be  until  the  end. 
The  very  pulses  of  Time's  mighty  heart 
Throb  only  unto  changes !  not  a  seed, 
Flung  broadcast  by  the  winds,  or  sport  of  waves, 
But  finds  its  place,  and  through  mysterious  change 
Springs  up,  germ,  leaf,  and  bud,  to  perfect  flower; 
Then  back  again  to  earth,  till  from  its  dust 
A  Phoenix-birth  shall  rise,  once  more  to  be 
The  waif  of  winds  and  waves !     So,  evermore, 
Prom  life  to  death,  from  death  to  later  life, 
The  Protean  change  doth  work ;   and  so  shall  work, 
Until  the  coming  of  that  better  time 
When  all  shall  rest  in  GOD,  — "  the  SAME  to-day, 
Yesterday,  and  forever !  " 

Richard  Leigh 

Had  fallen,  they  said,  in  some  rude  midnight  fray. 
This  rumor  told  me.     Lady  Anne  said  nought 
Of  him  who  was  her  husband.     From  her  lips 
There  came  no  word  revealing  the  sad  truth 
Of  what  her  life  in  Florence  fair  had  been. 
She  was  his  wife;  as  such,  she  might  not  speak 
Aught  evil  of  her  husband.     But  I  knew 
What  all  her  silence  could  not  hide  from  me. 
A  tone,  a  sigh,  —  a  something  less  than  sound,  — 
Were  each  a  revelation.     All  those  years 
Had  never  seal  for  me.     O  little  Anne ! 
Your  loving  heart  had  broken  long  ago 
But  for  the  child  whom  GOD  had  given  you. 
Its  tiny  hands  did  hold  you  back  from  death ; 
Its  twining  arms  made  life  seem  of  some  worth ; 
And  so  you  did  not  die  when  Richard  Leigh 
Did  tear  the  mask  from  off  his  smiling  face, 
And  mocked  at  all  your  dreams  of  love  and  faith. 
Alas,  poor  child !     GOD,  only,  speaks  these  words,  — 
"  I  will  never  leave  thee,  nor  forsake  thee !  " 
And  what  HE  saith  we  know  shall  be  a  rock 
Whereon  our  souls  may  build,  fearing  no  flood. 
But  human  lips,  though  uttering  such  words, 
Are  all  unstable,  may  deny  them  too; 
And  we,  who  trusted  in  their  promise  sweet, 
Shall  be  as  ships,  that,  battered  by  the  storm, 
With  rudder  lost,  can  find  no  anchorage, 


THE    LADY  ANNE.  313 

So  drift  out  helpless  to  the  hungry  sea 

That  roareth  for  its  prey.     Alas  for  love 

That  putteth  hope,  yea,  overweening  trust, 

In  aught  this  side  of  heaven !     All  too  soon 

The  lorn  hope  clieth,  and  the  simple  trust, 

That  formed  an  idol  from  the  plastic  clay, 

Kobed  it  with  beauty,  shrined  it  in  the  heart 

With  many  a  low  credo,  unto  which 

Itself  did  say  Amen,  shall  find,  some  day, 

The  poor  shrine  broken,  and  the  idol  gone ! 

Or  it  may  find  (a  thing  of  every  day) 

Its  golden  idol  but  a  lump  of  clay 

Ground"  into  dust  by  some  most  scornful  feet 

Trampling  the  shape  once  worshipped.     While  the  shrine, 

Intact  and  perfect,  hath  no  dent  to  show 

What  eager  hands  had  flung  the  idol  off; 

Yet  at  its  base  a  crimson  mantle  lies, 

Flung  there  in  haste.     Gather  it  up  again, 

And  put  it  by.     It  will  not  show  the  stain 

Of  some  red  drops  its  folds  have  blotted  out. 

And  life  goes  on,  with  labor  and  with  song, 

With  daily  duties  finished  or  begun, 

With  tears  and  laughter;  ever  ringing  out 

The  same  old  changes ;  but  it  nothing  tells 

Of  the  grave  it  treadeth  on ! 

Poor  little  Anne ! 

You  thought  to  bury  in  that  foreign  grave 

All  darker  memories,  so  your  life  might  be 

As  summer-sunshine,  and  as  summer-dews 

Unto  your  only  child.     But,  who  may  say 

Unto  the  stern  and  irrevocable  Past, 

"  I  will  have  nought  of  thce."    It  clingeth  close,  — 

A  very  Nestus-robe  unto  our  lives ; 

And  all  our  future,  bright  though  it  may  be, 

Shuts  never  out  the  pliantoms  of  dead  joys 

That  haunt  our  hearts  forever.     As  a  stream  — 

Beneath  whose  waters  some  unburied  corse 

Is  slowly  floating  with  the  ebbing  tide  — 

Doth  tell  no  story  to  the  sunny  day 

Of  what  it  hideth,  though  that  foulest  shape 

Both  lie  so  close  below ;  so  in  our  hearts 

The  things  which  have  been  find  still  burial, 

And  smiles  and  laughter  round  their  silent  grave. 

But  to  that  grave  swift  retrospection  comes, 

And,  at  her  voice,  it  giveth  up  its  dead. 

The  river  hath  its  secret ;  but,  some  day, 

Its  depths  shall  render  up  the  thing  they  held; 


314  THE   LADY  ANNE. 

To  haunt  its  sunshine  with  a  memory 
As  an  everlasting  cloud. 

O  human  life ! 

So  long,  and  yet  so  brief!     So  loud,  so  still ; 
So  full  of  strife ;  so  full  of  quietness  ; 
Yet  never  bringest  us  one  brimming  cup 
Of  Lethe's  tideless  stream !     Some  drops,  perchance, 
May  mingle  in  thy  chalice,  taking  place 
Of  Memory's  frothing  wine ;  so  that  a  day, 
A  month,  a  year,  may  see  no  phantoms  rise 
From  out  the  silent  Past.     But  Memory, 
Asserting  sway,  doth  take  its  full  revenge ; 
And,  throned  again,  doth  rule  our  shrinking  souls 
As  with  a  rod  of  iron.     Thus  it  is 
That  Earth  no  waters  of  oblivion  hath, 
Nor  now,  nor  ever;  and  the  Grave  is  not 
What  some  have  fabled  it.    Nay,  Time  itself. 
That  so-called  Lethe,  doth  but  charm  our  pain 
With  ether-breathings.     We  cannot  forget. 
No  after  joyance  may  efface  the  print 
Life's  saddest  hours  pressed  deep  upon  the  soul ; 
And  shadows  of  what  hath  been  follow  still 
The  path  of  sunshine  we  are  treading  now ; 
As  night  moves  onward  where  the  day  fades  out ; 
A  very  Indian  in  its  self-same  steps, 
As  stealthy  and  as  still ! 

In  this  our  world, 

Nor  sound,  nor  breath,  nor  echo  of  a  sigh, 
Palls  stillborn  from  our  lips.     It  hath  its  work, 
And  does  it  too,  though  we  may  never  know 
Unto  what  end  it  grew.    An  acorn,  once, 
Fell  from  its  high  estate,  and  hid  itself 
Beneath  the  darksome  ground.     A  hundred  years, 
And  from  its  grave  a  giant  oak  had  reared 
Its  far-out-reaching  boughs.     So  little  things  — 
A  look,  a  tone,  perchance  some  heedless  word, 
That  we  think  blotted  from  our  book  of  life  — 
May  fall  on  fitting  soil,  and  grow  to  be 
A  mighty  thought,  o'ershadowiug  the  land 
As  stately  palm,  or  deadly  upas-tree. 
In  humble  earnestness,  then,  let  us  pray 
That  God  will  set  upon  our  lips  a  guard, 
Since  words,  once  uttered,  are  our  own  no  more; 
We  cannot  call  them  back.    For  weal,  for  woe, 
Those  airy  messengers  have  sallied  forth, 
Throughout  all  time  their  devious  course  to  run ; 
And  we,  who  let  them  go,  must  answer  too, 
For  the  wild  work  they  do.    And,  if  our  words, 


THE   LADY  ANNE.  315 

So  lightly  spoken,  and  so  lightly  sped, 

Go  sounding  ever  through  the  coming  time ; 

Each  act  of  ours  must  be  a  thunder-peal, 

Stirring  the  universe  !     We  hear  it  not. 

Our  souls  are  deaf;  for  that  their  house  of  clay 

Doth  dull  their  finer  sense.     But  when  they  stand 

Without  the  earthen  walls  —  alone  with  GOD  !  — 

Shall  the  deaf  adder  hear ! 

"  Hast  ever  watched 

The  earliest  tracery  of  the  coming  Spring? 
The  soft,  faint  touches  of  her  gentle  hand? 
Seen  first  on  Earth's  brown  bosom  when  the  grass 
Sends  up  its  tiny  blades  to  greet  the  sun. 
Shown  next  in  sheltered  and  retired  nooks, 
Where  through  the  pervious  sod  the  hidden  spring 
Wells  upward  silently,  and  feedeth  so 
The  fairy  veinings  of  each  starting  leaf. 
Then  from  its  nest  of  darkly  shining  leaves, 
First-born  of  Spring,  the  blue-eyed  myrtle  peeps ; 
While  alder-blooms  are  swaying  In  the  breeze, 
Scattering  their  golden  dust.     Along  the  brook, 
By  thousands  numbered,  grows  the  violet ; 
And,  on  the  hill-side,  'mid  the  piny  woods, 
The  pale  arbutus  trails  its  blossoms  sweet. 
Soon,  from  their  downy,  brown,  empurpled  leaves, 
The  squirrel-cup  lifts  up  its  modest  head ; 
And  tender  crocus,  graceful  hyacinth, 
Clothe  the  brown  earth  with  beauty."  — 

So  a  friend, 

From  o'er  the  ocean,  writeth  me  of  Spring, — 
The  Spring  that  greets  him  on  Mohegan's  shores. 
Not  so  it  greeteth  us.     Our  fields  are  green 
Alike  in  sunshine,  'neath  a  cloudy  sky, 
And  when  the  snow  is  tying,  cold  and  white, 
As  a  virgin's  pall,  above  them.     Silently 
Spring  grows  on  Winter,  as  an  ivy  folds 
The  stately  ruin  of  some  ancient  oak ; 
And  it  is  here,  with  beauty  and  with  song, 
Ere  we  mark  its  coming,  or  have  taken  note 
Of  the  dying  Winter.     We  little  heed 
The  changing  seasons ;  but  my  foreign  friend 
Was  something  of  a  poet;  and  he  kept 
His  yearly  calendar,  his  dial  too, 
By  the  sweet  signs  of  flowers.     If  he  spake 
Of  any  hour,  "  'twas  when  the  primrose  closed  ; " 
"  When  morning-glories  oped  their  azure  eyes;  " 
Or  "  when  the  dew  was  fresh  on  violets." 


316  THE  LADY  ANNE. 

And  were  the  talk  of  seasons,  straight  he'd  say, 
"I  mind  me  well,  'twas  when  the  apple-blooms 
Were  thick  in  orchards ;  "  —  "  When  the  golden  corn 
Was  ripe  for  harvesting."     Or,  were  he  sad, 
With  mournful  cadence,  he  would  murmur  low, 
"  When  leaves  are  falling;  "  —  "  When  the  roses  die." 

I've  thought,  at  times,  how  passing  sweet  it  was 
To  reckon  time  by  flowers ;  not  by  pulses, 
Whose  throb  too  often  is  an  added  pain. 
But  ah !  not  so  keep  we  our  count  of  time. 
We  reckon  it  by  changes ;  by  the  days 
When  we  were  young ;  by  manhood's  stately  prime ; 
By  the  white  hairs  of  age,  and  evermore 
Think  what  hath  been  more  fair  than  that  we  have. 
As  if,  in  journeying  to  the  glowing  East, 
The  setting  sun  sank  sudden  from  our  sight; 
And,  looking  backward,  to  the  hills  o'erpast, 
We  see  them  shining  in  the  golden  rays 
That  light  our  way  no  more.     We  know  the  morn 
May  bring  a  day  more  gloriously  fair; 
It  is  the  Future  ;  but,  uncertain  all, 
Of  which  we  say  not  "  being,"  but  "to  be." 
And  count  we  on  earth's  future  as  we  may, 
It  is  but  leaning  on  a  broken  reed. 
Nor  yet  to-morrow  may  we  call  our  own ; 
Since  even  now  the  word  may  have  gone  forth : 
"  This  night  thy  soul  shall  be  required  of  thee." 

How  reckon  then  our  days  ?    By  good  deeds  done, 
That  yet  were  nothing  but  for  simple  Faith. 
By  true  words,  spoken  with  a  low  heart-prayer 
That  our  poor  seed  may  fall  on  goodly  ground, 
And  to  GOD'S  harvest  grow.     And  by  "  small  things,' 
That  seem  to  perish  in  their  hour  of  birth; 
But  meet  us  after,  full  and  stately  grown, 
GOD'S  chicfest  blessings ;  as  if  we  had  cast 
"  Our  bread  upon  the  waters,"  and  had  found  • 
"  It  after  many  days." 

What  though  true  words 

And  noble  deeds,  linked  unto  Faith  and  Love, 
Be  truest  data  whence  to  reckon  time  ? 
Men  count  not  so.     Some  brief  success  in  life,  — 
One  forward  step  in  the  world's  beaten  path, 
Whereto  it  matters  not,  — a  gain,  a  loss, 
A  fate  accomplished,  or  a  granted  fame, 
Stand  out  as  sign-posts  on  their  road  of  life ; 
And  each  doth  tell  the  distance  travelled  o'er 


THE   LADY  ANNE.  317 

In  months,  or  years.    A  woman's  quiet  life 

Is  told  by  heart-beats.     Joys  and  sorrows  lie 

Thick  strewn  upon  the  pages  of  the  book 

She  keepeth  unto  Time.     A  broken  hope 

That  finds  still  burial,  a  joy  intense 

Through  all  her  pulses  thrilling,  or  a  grave, 

Whose  silence  falleth  on  her  after  life,  — 

Are  all  the  data  of  a  woman's  heart. 

She  keepeth  record  of  a  thousand  things 

That  in  man's  world  are  nothing.    Looks,  and  tones, 

And  utterings  of  words,  fill  her  still  days 

Up  to  the  very  brim  with  happiness ; 

And  little  things  are  all  the  world  to  her; 

And  all  the  more,  when  love  doth  crown  her  life 

With  the  o'crflowing  fulness  of  content. 

And  woman's  heart,  too  prescient  evermore, 

Glooms  to  the  shadow  of  a  nameless  fear, 

Hears  its  death-warrant  in  a  careless  tone, 

And  breaks  in  silence.     So  the  Spartan  boy 

Spake  never  word,  the  while  the  stolen  fox 

Was  gnawing  at  his  vitals.     So  that  boy 

Of  later  times  stood  up  erect  and  still, 

The  while  his  monarch  spake  sweet  words  of  praise, 

"  But  you  are  wounded !  "     "  Sire,  it  is  death  I "  — 

And,  saying  so,  looked  smiling  up,  and  died ! 

So  little  Anne,  though  but  a  woman  weak, 
Wore  smiles,  nay,  jests,  upon  the  arching  lips 
Whose  red  curve  told  no  tales ;  and  yet  I  knew 
How  still  a  grave  they  veiled  from  the  day. 

And  years  moved  on,  all  unrevealingly. 
The  years  that  stole  no  smiles,  yet  left  their  frosts 
Upon  some  brownest  tresses  :  though  they  still 
Gleamed  golden  in  the  sun.     And  he,  her  child, 
Fair  Morven's  bonny  heir,  had  seen  the  dawn 
Of  early  childhood  fade  into  the  light 
Of  youth's  serenest  morning,  with  no  cloud 
To  dull  its  beauty,  or  its  glory  dim. 
A  childhood,  pure  as  maiden-dreamings  are, 
A  stainless  youth,  had  rounded  to  a  man 
Who  dared  look  heavenward. 

Dark  days  were  coming. 

Days  of  fierce  strife;  the  deadly  Crimean  War; 
And  England's  hope  must  share  that  revelling. 
So  forth  they  went,  the  gallant  ones,  the  true, 
Bearing  high  hearts  to  battle.     With  no  thought 
That  Death  might  meet  them,  deadly  and  most  sure, 


318  THE    LADY  ANNE. 

On  other  than  battle-field.     And  he  went, — 

Her  boy,  —  she  could  not  keep  him  back.     Would  not 

Had  been  more  fitting  word.     His  eager  soul 

Burning  in  his  eyes,  he  came  to  tell  her,  — 

"  Come  life  or  death,  he  must  go  with  the  host 

That  England  sent  to  battle ;"  so  he  went. 

Hast  ever  read  of  that  poor  guest  of  old 
Who,  seated  at  the  banquet,  saw  the  sword 
Suspended  o'er  him  by  a  single  thread, 
So  slight,  a  breath  of  air  might  sever  it? 
So  one  sharp  fear  hung  heavy  on  the  word 
"News  from  the  East"  might  bring. 

It  came  at  last,  — 

The  day  of  fate ;  and  ushered  wildly  in 
By  the  dark  tale  of  Balaklava's  charge,  — 
That  fatal  charge.     All  England  rang  with  it ; 
Nay,  the  world.     But  few  gave  even  one  poor  thought 
To  those  whose  best  and  dearest  had  gone  down 
In  that  wild  charge  to  death !     What  cared  the  world 
For  wealth  of  woman's  tears,  for  hearts  that  bled 
To  death,  o'er  their  beloved  lying  low 
On  that  dark  field  of  blood?    Blood  poured  like  rain, 
And  wasted  as  a  shower  on  desert  sands. 
Blood,  winning  nothing,  save  the  bitter  fame 
That  sitteth  mocking  on  unnumbered  tombs ; 
Yet  saying  low,  "  Only  the  good  are  great; 
Only  they  accounted  so,  when  at  the  bar 
GOD  sits  in  judgment." 

Ay,  he  was  dead ! 

And  England  mourned  no  nobler  son  than  he. 
No  truer  heart,  no  purer  soul  than  his 
Did  beat  among  her  thousands  ;  and  the  dust 
Of  that  so  crimson  Crimea  lies  above 
The  last  of  Morven's  race.     But  none  know  where 
The  fair,  young  earl  is  sleeping  his  last  sleep. 
He  shared  that  fearful  charge,  but  came  not  back 
Nor  then,  nor  ever,  —  living  nor  yet  dead. 
And  so  the  tale  came  home. 

A  little  thing 

It  seems,  perhaps,  unto  some  careless  eye, 
When  "  missing,"  endeth  low  some  battle-roll, 
But,  for  the  loving  ones  of  hearth  and  home, 
Unto  whose  yearning  hearts  that  one  brief  word 
Is  all  the  battle  bringeth,  'tis  a  sword, 
Whose  point,  envenomed,  makes  no  ghastly  wound 
Whence  the  warm  life  flows  out ;  but  with  a  scratch 
Doth  taint  the  very  fountain  of  the  blood 


THE   LADY  ANNE.  319 

With  intermingling  of  death's  darker  tide. 

The  doom,  though  slow,  is  not  one  whit  less  sure. 

And,  at  the  last,  o'er  all  life's  crimson  flow 

The  dark  wave  rides  triumphant.     But  one  word, 

One  little  word,  hath  set  the  death-tide  free ; 

And  over  all  their  little  isle  of  life 

The  storm- waves  thunder ;  while  their  bark  of  hope, 

Storm-driven,  wanders  from  the  port  of  home, 

May  never  come  to  shore !  But  they  have  hope. 

The  Lady  Anne  had  none. 

It  matters  little  where  the  dead  may  lie, 
Since  GOD  doth  keep  our  dust.     The  spirit  hath 
Its  home  on  other  shores ;  and  thither  we 
Must  all  be  wending.     Whether  to  the  earth, 
Or  to  the  keeping  of  the  soundless  deep, 
Or  unto  freest  winds,  we  give  the  dead, 
Doth  nothing  trouble  rae ;  since  in  my  heart 
There  resteth  warm  the  sweet,  immortal  words : 
"  I  AM  THE  RESURRECTION  AND  THE  LIFE  !  " 

I  feel  —  yea,  know  —  that  in  the  far-off  Land 
Which  we  call  Heaven,  — where  some  coming  day 
Shall  give  us  back  to  the  beloved  there,  — 
I  know  that  those  who  have  gone  from  us  here, 
Seeking  a  better  country  and  a  home, 
Shall  greet  us  once  again  on  that  blessed  shore, 
With  all  the  old  familiar  voices  sweet, 
And  faces  changeless  in  their  dear  old  shape. 
For  in  fond  eyes,  and  unto  loving  hearts, 
Sameness  is  beauty !     How  should  we  be  known 
By  those  most  dear,  if  other  mien  we  wear 
In  the  Eternal  Land?    What  though  the  form 
May  have  a  beauty  passing  earthly  dream, 
And  on  each  brow  no  olden  shadows  lie ;" 
Yet  something  of  the  shape  that  once  was  ours, 
Though  glorified,  purified,  shall  remain 
Answering  the  old  love  still.     Or  else  what  hope 
For  the  lone  hearts  of  earth  that  quiet  live 
Because  they  feel  that  after  death  shall  come 
Reunion?    And  —  if  in  the  other  world 
No  recognition  be ;  if  those  whom  death 
Hath  early  severed,  do  but  part  to  meet 
As  strangers  meet  and  part  on  this  our  earth; 
No  deathless  love  o'ermastering  time  and  space 
And  waiting  for  us  on  the  farther  shore  — 
How  bitter  cold  the  waves  of  death  would  rise 
Hound  our  reluctant  feet !    How  would  our  hearts 


320  THE   LADY  ANNE. 

Recoil  in  shuddering  from  the  fatal  stream 
That  shuts  all  knowledge  of  our  loved  ones  out ; 
So  shutting  out  forever! 

Pause,  and  think. 

Are  there  no  eyes,  no  tender,  shining  eyes, 
That  our  poor  hands  have  lidded  from  the  sun 
They  look  not  on  again  ?    Are  there  no  hands 
Whose  gentle  clasp  did  seem  to  bring  fresh  trust 
In  earthly  lovingiiess,  that  we  have  seen 
Quietly  folded  on  a  pulseless  breast, 
So  folded  that  they  meet  our  own  no  more? 
Are  there  no  voices  whose  soft  echo  still 
Floats  through  our  memory,  waking  there 
Such  wealth  of  yearning,  —  voices  that  have  long 
Been  silent  in  the  grave  ?     Are  there  not  forms, 
Once  full  of  life  and  all  life's  lovingness, 
That  we  have  given  to  the  dust  to  keep 
"  In  the  sure  hope  of  Heaven  "  ?    And  shall  all  these 
Take  not  a  shadow  of  their  olden  selves 
Into  tho  other  Land  ?    No  one  sweet  clue 
Bearing  us  through  the  labyrinthine  Past 
Into  the  presence  of  the  souls  beloved, 
That  went  before  us  to  the  Better  Land  ? 
Nay,  never  so.     GOD  loveth  us  too  well ! 
And  he  —  the  Christ  —  who  dwelt  awhile  in  flesh, 
Taking  our  mortal  nature  on  himself, 
Suffering  as  we,  —  loving  as  we  cannot  love,  — 
Will  surely  give  us  something  of  this  earth, 
All  purer  hopes  and  loves,  to  keep  alway 
Deepening  the  joy  of  Heaven ! 

Who  taketh  note 

How  the  swift  hours  go  ?    We  let  them  pass 
As  flowers  idly  gathered,  and  as  idly  flung 
Aside  in  our  soon  mood  of  weariness. 
We  heed  them  not.     What  does  it  matter,  then, 
That  irrevocably  the  days  have  gone, 
Dying  from  out  our  lives  as  blossoms  die 
From  off  the  summer  earth?     Their  work  is  done ; 
GOD,  only,  knoweth  how ;  and  never  prayer 
From  human  lips  can  bring  them  back  again. 
But  let  them  go ;  so  in  the  other  world 
They  rise  not  up  with  their  accusing  voice 
As  witness  'gainst  our  soul ! 

One  quiet  morn  — 

'Tis  scarce  a  twelvemonth  since  —  a  poor  man  stood 
Without  the  church's  door,  and  paused,  as  one 
Who  dared  not  tread  within  the  courts  of  GOD. 


THE   LADY  ANNE.  321 

I  marked  his  brow,  deep  graven  with  such  lines 
As  passion  stencils  in  her  darkest  mood. 
I  marked  the  quivering  of  the  thin  white  lips, 
The  trembling  of  the  frame.     I  questioned  not 
Of  what  his  past  had  been,  but  oped  the  door, 
And  bade  him  enter.     "  GOD'S  house  was  not  barred 
To  any  human  soul."    In  lowly  guise 
The  gray  head  bent  before  me.     From  the  lips 
A  thankful  murmur  came.     Within  the  porch 
The  stranger  stood,  shaking  in  every  limb 
That  in  their  weakness  seemed  to  chain  his  feet. 
A  moment's  pause,  —  one  backward  glance  he  gave 
Unto  the  graves  that  in  the  morning  light 
Looked  green  and  very  still.     Then  prone  he  fell 
Across  the  threshold,  with  a  low,  faint  cry  : 
"  Have  mercy,  GOD,  on  me !  " 

I  raised  him  up ; 

But  laid  him  clown  again,  as  faint  and  sick 
The  white  lips  turned  more  white.     No  need  of  aid. 
My  simple  skill  availed  to  call  life  back; 
But  when  it  came,  I  knew  'twas  as  a  guest 
Who  tarrieth  but  a  night. 

Above  our  heads 

The  early  bells  pealed  out  their  matin-song, 
And  through  the  glistening  dew  the  people  came 
Unto  the  morning  prayer.     I  gave  the  man 
Into  the  sexton's  charge,  and  bade  him  see 
Him  cared  for  tenderly.     To  his  own  home 
Did  Griffith  bear  the  sick  and  dying  man. 
And,  after  service,  there  I  found  him,  laid 
In  the  best  chamber,  curtained  in  from  light, 
Whose  glare  was  painful  to  the  dimming  eyes. 
There  was  a  trembling  of  the  nerveless  hands, 
A  recognition  in  the  sickly  smile 
Wherewith  he  greeted  me. 

—  "I  saw  you  once  — 

In  London  —  on  the  bridge  —  the  night  she  died. 
My  little  Alice  Hurst !     I  was  avenged. 
I  followed  him  for  long;  found  him  at  last, 
And  stabbed  him  to  the  heart  that  was  so  false ! 
Life  for  a  life.     I  heard  a  sermon  once 
Which  preached  that  doctrine.    I  have  lived  it  out !  " 

This  much  —  no  more  —  uttered  with  gasping  breath, 
And  pauses  long  between.    Then  came  the  end. 

We  little  know  what  tales  the  inner  life, 
With  all  its  solemn  mysteries,  could  reveal! 
21 


322  THE  LADY  ANNE. 

How,  like  a  ghost,  some  buried  sin  doth  flit 
Through  the  heart's  silent  chambers,  resting  not; 
And  only  laid,  when  we  ourselves  lie  low 
Within  the  grave ;  or  when  the  voice  of  GOD 
Brings  peace  to  haunted  heart  and  troubled  soul. 
But  ere  his  love  doth  lay  all  phantoms  low, 
And  from  old  griefs  draw  all  the  bitter  out, 
We  stagger  blindly  up  the  rugged  hill 
Ourselves  have  made  of  straws,  and  daily  press 
Into  our  shrinking  flesh  some  sharpest  cross 
Christ  never  laid  on  us.    Yea,  think  the  while, 
We  may  win  heaven  by  the  heavy  load 
Ourselves  have  shouldered;  by  the  deathly  shape 
That  walks  so  like  a  skeleton  in  the  house, 
Within  the  secret  chambers  of  the  soul, 
Making  life  hideous.    Yet  we  keep  it  there, 
As  though  it  were  a  treasure  past  all  price. 
GOD  send  it  go  not  to  the  other  world,  — 
A  fearful  witness  of  the  hidden  sin 
We  garnered  from  man's  knowledge,  —  there  to  be 
Bound  to  the  shrinking  soul,  as  was  the  dead 
Unto  the  living  in  that  doom  of  old ! 

This  wandering  soul  had  gone  to  judgment. 
All  its  sins  lay  heavy  on  it. 

Death  comes, 

And  finds  us  unrepentant.    With  stern  hand 
He  shuts  the  door  of  reconciliation, 
No  more  to  open  to  our  erring  souls 
In  the  hereafter.     For  the  other  world,  — 
Whereof  we  know  but  darkly  —  hath  no  time 
To  wear  away  the  stains  of  earthly  sin ; 
And  in  the  world  beyond  the  sea  of  death 
Doth  dwell  no  virtue  purging  us  of  sin. 
The  only  hope,  whereto  our  souls  can  cling, 
Is  in  this  present  life ;  and  yet  too  oft 
Its  holy  refuge  is  a  thing  despised,  — 
An  ark  we  neither  seek,  nor  enter  in. 
We  see  no  shadow  of  the  awful  Cross 
Whereon  GOD'S  Son  did  hang.     The  Sacred  Blood, 
From  tortured  veins  poured  forth  on  Calvary, 
A  stream  to  heal  the  nations,  flows  in  vain 
For  those  who  will  not  trust  its  saving  flood. 
And  yet  it  floweth  to  our  very  feet ; 
We  need  but  stoop,  and  drink !    Oh  blind,  blind,  blind ! 
We  will  not  see,  that  aye  within  our  reach 
That  stream  of  life  is  flowing  evermore ; 
We  will  not  taste  the  sweet  and  precious  wave 


THE   LADY  ANNE.  323 

Proffered  so  freely.     "  Whosoever  will " 

May  come,  and  drink,  and  gain  eternal  life. 

We  will  not  hear  the  Voice  that  bids  us  "come." 

Though  we  "  labor  and  are  heavy-laden," 

We  will  not  seek  the  promised  rest  to  find; 

We  will  not  trust  our  GOD  I     We  dare  not  say 

"  His  arm  is  shortened  that  it  cannot  save ;" 

And  yet  we  act  the  lie !     Our  lives  show  forth 

The  sin  we  dare  not  utter  with  our  lips ; 

We  have  no  faith  in  GOD  !    Lost  sheep  are  we, 

That  wander  guideless  on  the  mountains  dark, 

And  will  not  seek  the  fold  secure  to  gain. 

Its  door  stands  ever  open,  for  our  Lord, 

The  Shepherd,  knows  his  own.     None  enter  there 

Who  bear  not  in  with  them  the  Master's  name, 

The  mark  that  he  hath  set.     Without  are  wolves, 

That  ravening  seek  their  prey.     Without  are  storms, 

That  beat  all  pitiless  upon  the  sheep 

That  wander  from  the  fold.     Without  are  snares, 

That  catch  the  unwary  feet ;  and  pitfalls,  too, 

That  make  full  many  captive.     But,  within, 

No  wolf  may  enter,  tempest  breaketh  not, 

And  snare  and  pitfall  are  as  things  unknown. 

Without  are  flowers,  fair  and  sweet  to  view, 

But  whoso  gathereth  shall  take  poison  home ! 

Without  are  fruits,  most  tempting  to  the  eye, 

But,  plucked  and  tasted,  they  are  ashes  all ! 

Within  we  gather  grapes  of  vintage  rare, 

Whose  wine  gives  life  eternal  to  the  soul; 

And  there,  the  flowers  of  true  and  heavenly  type 

Do  shadow  forth  our  immortality ! 

Within  the  fold  of  Christ !     Within  the  Church ! 
The  Church  he  builded  up  by  Life  and  Death, 
From  Cross  and  Sepulchre !     How  few  of  us 
Are  living  members  of  the  Church  of  GOD,  — 
Are  in  the  fold  of  Christ !     On  some  of  us 
Baptismal  waters  lie  like  holy  dew,  — 
Pure  drops  that  keep  life's  sweetest  flowers  fresh, 
And  ripen  all  unto  the  golden  fruits 
GOD'S  angels  gather  in.     Others  brush  off 
The  saving  drops  by  contact  with  the  world ; 
The  world  that  hath  nor  part  nor  lot  with  GOD  ; 
And  so  the  life  they  should  have  nourished  most,  — 
GOD'S  life  within  the  soul,  —  is  dwarfed  and  dies, 
Unless  GOD'S  breath  shall  bid  the  "  dry  bones  live,"  — 
His  love  redeem  the  captive  from  foul  sin, 
And  wash  the  leper  clean. 


324  THE  LADY  ANNE. 

Unto  this  GOD, 

Whose  love  outreacheth  far  our  widest  ken, 
We  leave  the  soul  that  sated  its  revenge 
With  nothing  less  than  blood.     I  judge  it  not. 
How  know  I  but  this  soul,  crimsoned  with  blood, 
May  be  found  whiter  in  the  judgment-day 
Than  mine  or  thine  ?    It  is  a  fearful  thing 
Daring  to  set  the  seal  of  "lost,"  or  "saved," 
On  any  human  soul ! 

As  in  the  years 

Of  Egypt's  palmy  splendor  men  did  sit 
In  judgment  on  the  dead,  so  in  these  days, 
Transmitted  down  through  all  the  centuries, 
Men  keep  the  old  rite  still ;  but  not  as  then. 
No  solemn  court  is  held ;  no  judges  sit; 
But,  in  their  stead,  each  maketh  of  himself 
Both  court  and  judge ;  and  with  unseemly  haste 
Doth  speak  the  sentence.     If,  as  we  are  taught, 
The  words  we  utter  shall  recoil  on  us, 
The  doom  we  render  others  is  our  own. 
And  yet,  how  lightly  spoken  are  the  words 
That  some  day  soon  shall  sound  unto  our  souls 
A  thunder-peal  forever,  dying  not ! 
Verily,  there  is  a  GOD  that  judgeth ! 

It  seemeth  strange,  how  on  the  shore  of  Time 
The  wrecks  of  old  and  former  things  are  cast; 
Eecalling  the  forgotten,  —  bringing  back 
The  dead  things  of  the  Past,  as  if  our  life 
Did  move  in  circles.     For  this  man  who  died 
Did  seem  to  end  the  circle  was  begun 
That  night  I  stood  upon  old  London  Bridge, 
And  saw,  but  could  not  save,  poor  Alice  Hurst. 

Do  all  things  move  in  circles?     Seasons,  years, 
The  rise  and  fall  of  kingdoms,  changes,  time, 
Creations  and  entombings,  —  all  these  seem 
To  end  where  they  began;  and,  ending  so, 
Do  rise  like  Phoenix  from  its  funeral  pyre 
To  live  another  life.     Unlike  the  old 
Perchance  in  phases,  but  alike  in  this  : 
Beginning  and  the  ending  are  the  same. 
The  tiny  seed,  a  breath  of  wind  doth  shake 
From  out  its  cell  upon  the  dewy  earth, 
Shall  feel  the  quickening  sun,  and  wake  to  life. 
Two  wings  of  green  have  burst  their  prison-cell ; 
Leaves  grow,  and  the  delicate  stem  is  seen 
To  rear  aloft  its  crown  of  golden  flowers. 


THE   LADY  ANNE.  325 

The  petals  fall,  the  seed-germs  grow  apace, 

Until,  full-ripe,  the  shaking  of  the  wind 

Shall  scatter  them  again,  to  spring  anew 

From  out  the  earth,  to  blossom,  and  to  die. 

So  their  brief  circles  run.     The  seasons  c^me, 

And  go,  and  come  again.     Suns  set  and  rise. 

The  moon  fulfils  her  month,  and  wanes,  and  grows, 

A  circle  in  itself.     Tides  ebb  and  flow 

Obedient  to  her  changes.     And  the  year 

Is  alway  changing  from  the  old  to  new. 

No  chimes  so  ancient  as  the  chimes  that  ring 

For  the  Old  Year  out,  and  the  New  Year  in." 

The  planets  have  their  courses.     This  our  Earth 

Keeps  on  her  path  through  all  the  circling  years. 

Each  planet  knows  its  own  appointed  way 

And  doth  not  swerve  aside,  but  faithful  is 

E'en  in  its  retrogression.     Man  is  made 

Of  the  dust  of  the  earth ;  and  when  he  dies 

Returns  to  dust  again.     Death  treads  on  Life. 

Life  springs  from  Death ;  and  so  the  circles  run. 

So  shall  they  run,  unless  GOD  shatter  them, 

Through  all  the  cycles  of  eternity. 

The  day  hath  not  yet  dawned.    I  hear  the  waits 
Sweet  singing  carols  'neath  their  rector's  porch. 
And  down  the  vale,  heard  through  the  rustling  pines 
The  bells  are  ringing  out  the  Christmas-song : 
"  Glad  tidings  of  great  joy."    How  softly  clear 
The  sounds  come  floating  on  the  winter  air 
Unto  my  study-window !     All  the  night 
Have  I  been  keeping  vigil.     Sleep  came  not 
Unto  my  weary  eyelids ;  so  I  sat, 
Outwatching  the  pale  stars,  and  counting  o'er 
How  many  years  the  Christmas-bells  had  rung 
Since  first  they  sounded  on  mine  infant  ears 
From  the  old  church  far  away.     The  dear  old  bells ! 
I  hear  them  now  as  when  in  other  clays 
They  chimed  out  at  earliest  Christmas  dawn 
"  Gloria  in  excelsis."    Dear  old  bells ! 
Your  chimes  ring  out  above  some  quiet  graves,  — 
Some  graves  I  have  not  seen  for  fifty  years,  — 
Shall  never  see  again ! 

How  very  near 

Lies  this  our  world  unto  that  other  world 
Where  Death,  who  owneth  here  a  kingly  realm, 
Can  never  enter !     All  its  gates  are  barred 
Unto  the  King  of  Shadows.     Never  shape, 
Like  unto  his,  can  win  an  entrance  there  ! 


326  THE   LADY  ANNE. 

I  lay  my  fingers  on  this  throbbing  vein, 

And  count  the  pulses.     Well  I  know  that  Death 

Doth  lurk  between  each  throb.     It  rests  with  GOD 

To  bid  the  pulse  go  on,  or  stop  forever ! 

A  breath  is  alKhat  lies  twixt  us  and  death, 

So  insecure  is  our  poor  hold  on  life, 

And  yet  we  think  not  of  it.     I  have  heard 

Men  planning  schemes  that  only  long,  full  years 

Could  crown  with  ripeness ;  yet  they  never  gave 

A  passing  thought  unto  the  Shape  that  stands 

Betwixt  two  worlds,  — the  Shape  that  laughs  to  scorn 

The  vain  imaginings  of  foolish  men ; 

And,  with  a  touch,  doth  make  them  and  their  dreams 

As  the  poor  dust  they  daily  trample  on,  — 

The  dust  that  once  was  all  instinct  with  life ; 

The  dust  that  now  is  nothing  but  the  dust, 

Yet  some  day  soon  may  wear  another  shape,  — 

Spring  up  as  vernal  grasses  fresh  and  green, 

Or,  clothed  with  beauty,  as  the  flowers  fair, 

Or  else,  put  on  some  higher,  nobler  form, 

And  walk,  a  man,  where  once  was  only  dust. 

The  bells  are  chiming  still ;  and  o'er  the  snow 
I  see  the  figures  of  the  singers  glide 
Each  to  some  cottage  home ;  ere  long  to  meet 
Beneath  the  arches  of  the  old  chapelle. 
The  blessed  little  ones  !     Who  loves  not  them 
Is  less  than  man,  and  worse  than  any  brute. 
I  have  lived  lonely  all  these  many  years  : 
I  had  nor  wife  nor  children,  —  yet  my  days 
Have  flowed  on  calmly,  tended  by  the  love 
I  know  I  won  from  all  the  little  ones. 
They  came  to  me  with  such  unfearing  trust ; 
They  laid  in  mine,  soft  fingers  lovingly ; 
Their  arms  have  oft  been  twined  around  my  neck; 
Their  little  heads  have  lain  upon  my  breast ; 
Their  kisses  sweet  been  pressed  on  lips  and  brow, 
As  I  had  been  their  father.    Joyous  shouts 
Would  greet  the  coming  of  their  rector's  feet; 
And  none  so  welcome  at  each  cottage  porch 
As  he  who  poured  upon  each  infant  brow 
The  healing  waters  from  the  holy  font. 
Should  I  not  be  content?    And  so,  to-day, 
The  Christmas  chimes  sound  sweeter  than  of  yore; 
My  heart  seems  singing  such  a  joyous  song, 
As  if  it,  too,  would  feign  keep  holy  day. 


THE   LADY  ANNE.  327 

Sick  unto  death !    My  darling,  whom  I  love ! 
Love  better  now  than  in  that  earlier  day 
When  I  was  young,  and  she  so  fair,  so  fair! 
Sick  unto  death,  and  I  am  powerless. 
My  little  Anne ! 

Through  all  those  saddest  days 
The  tenderness  of  old  had  flushed  my  heart 
As  with  the  fire  of  my  ardent  youth. 
I  felt  again,  in  every  throbbing  pulse, 
The  old,  old  pain;  the  one  love  unreturned, 
That  made  my  manhood  lonely,  and  my  hair 
White  long  before  its  time 

They  left  me  there,  to  pray  beside  the  dead ; 
But,  GOD  forgive  me !  I  had  only  tears, 
And  passionate  moaning  that  would  have  its  way, 
I  had  been  calm  so  long  for  her  dear  sake ; 
O'ermastering  the  pain  with  iron  hand. 
The  hand  was  useless  now,  and  the  pent  flood 
Broke  up  the  fountain  at  my  heart.    I  felt 
The  surging  torrent  bursting  from  my  lips, 
And  knew  no  more.     They  found  me  lying  there, 
As  pale  and  cold  as  was  the  Lady  Anne ; 
The  red  blood,  staining  all  the  snowy  couch. 
It  could  not  pain  her  now.    They  bore  me  home. 


She  is  at  rest.    From  out  this  world  of  care 
Her  gentle  soul  hath  gone  unto  its  GOD. 
It  suffered,  struggled,  but  the  strife  is  o'er. 
Death  laid  his  hand  upon  the  throbbing  heart, 
And  stilled  its  pulses.     GOD  took  home  the  soul 
That  through  its  long  probation  won  the  rest 
He  "  giveth  his  beloved."    And  in  that  home  — 
It  lies  beyond  the  confines  of  this  earth  — 
Are  no  more  tears  and  pain.     Nor  Sin,  nor  Death, 
Are  in  that  City.    All  its  gates  are  Peace. 
No  night  is  there.    No  sun  nor  moon  do  shine. 
GOD  is  the  glory  thereof,  and  the  Lord 
Its  everlasting  Light ! 

She  is  at  rest ;  and  all  is  well  with  her. 
Thanks  be  to  GOD  for  this !     In  the  sure  hope 
No  man  can  take  away,  they  gave  to  earth 
Our  darling  Lady  Anne ;  and  "  Dust  to  dust, 
Ashes  to  ashes,"  hath  been  said  above 
Another  Morven.     But  the  last,  the  last ! 
The  name  hath  died  with  her.    No  heir  remains; 


328  ON    THE   JIIVER. 

And  so  a  stranger  shall  own  lordship  here. 
It  matters  not.     Ere  comes  the  Lenten  tide 
I  shall  have  passed  away. 

Behold,  O  GOD  ! 

The  people  thou  hast  given  to  my  care. 
Keep  them  from  wandering  in  forbidden  paths ; 
And  bring  them  home  to  thee.     My  work  is  done, 
And,  with  the  folding  of  my  feeble  hands, 
I  shall  lie  down  to  rest ;  but  these  remain, 
My  people  whom  I  love.     Keep  them,  O  GOD, 
Beneath  thy  shadowing  wings ;  and,  in  the  day 
When  thou  dost  count  thy  jewels,  grant  that  none 
Of  these  thy  children  be  found  wanting  there ! 


©n  tjje  fcifcri* 

SOFTLY  down  on  the  rippling  river 

Shineth  the  light  of  departing  day ; 
Arrows  of  flame  from  the  day-god's  quiver 

Blaze  on  the  cloudlets  far  away. 
Blue  are  the  hills  in  their  dusky  shading, 

Eastward  looking  with  waiting  eyes ; 
From  westerly  summits  the  light  is  fading, 

Purple  and  gold  are  the  evening  skies. 
Slowly  down  on  the  beautiful  river 

Floats  our  boat  as  the  tide  goes  out. 

Grand  old  trees  with  their  branches  waving, 

See  themselves  in  the  waters  clear; 
Little  flowers  their  petals  are  laving 

In  the  cool  ripple,  so  sweet,  so  near ! 
The  river  its  evening  song  is  singing 

Unto  the  pebbles  upon  the  beach ; 
And  the  leafy  aisles  of  the  wood  are  ringing 

Where  sing  the  bird-minstrels,  high  out  of  reach 
Slowly  down  on  the  beautiful  river 

Floats  our  boat  as  the  tide  goes  out. 

Over  the  waters  the  winds  breathe  slowly 
Perfumed  breath  from  the  locust-flowers ; 

Singing  now  high,  and  singing  now  lowly, 
Lullaby-songs  from  the  forest-bowers. 

Murmuring  waves,  with  a  slumberous  seeming, 
Mingle  their  music  with  songs  of  air; 


OLIVE  AND    VIOLET.  329 

Soothing  our  senses,  as  we  were  dreaming, 

A  dream  wherein  all  things  were  rarely  fair. 

Slowly  down  on  the  beautiful  river. 

Floats  our  boat  as  the  tide  goes  out. 


antJ  Ffolet. 


A  CHIME  of  bells  at  midnight.    Bells  that  rang 
The  Old  Year  sadly  out  —  the  New  Year  in. 
The  snow  was  falling  softly.     Thick  find  white 
It  lay  upon  the  pavement.    Not  a  foot 
Had  left  its  impress  on  the  stainless  snow ; 
And  so  the  street  wore,  for  an  hour's  space, 
The  cold,  pure  aspect  of  some  northern  hills. 
No  sound  of  revelling  awoke  the  night 
From  peace  and  slumber.     Only  through  the  air  — 
The  starry  flakes  just  trembled  to  the  sound  — 
Flowed,  soft  and  sweet,  the  chiming  of  the  bells. 

As  the  Old  Year  was  dying,  children  two 
Were  born  into  the  world.     As  far  apart 
In  their  belongings  as  the  day  and  night. 
Alike  in  this  :  their  souls  must  fight  their  way 
From  earthly  bondage  unto  Heaven's  gate, 
Or  sink  them  downward  to  the  utmost  hell. 

One  entered  life,  a  feeble  baby-girl, 
'Mid  fetid  air,  and  odors  damp  and  sour; 
Beside  a  hearth  whereon  the  fire  was  cold. 
No  loving  ones  did  greet  this  little  guest  — 
This  stranger  in  the  house.     Yet  was  the  house 
But  rarely  tenantless.     All  had  gone  forth 
Unto  some  revelling  of  New  Year's  Eve, 
When,  wandering  through  the  storm,  a  woman  came, 
Unto  the  broken  door- way  (  door  was  none), 
And,  blind  and  staggering,  half-crazed  with  pain, 
Had  fallen  by  the  cold  and  desolate  hearth. 
And  there  she  lay,  from  eve  till  midnight  came, 
In  one  long  strife  with  pain.     As  chimed  the  bells 
From  out  the  old  church-tower,  her  meanings  ceased. 
A  baby's  feeble  wail  recalled  to  earth  * 

The  soul  that  was  departing;  and  she  drew 
The  baby  to  her  breast,  and  wrapped  it  round 
With  her  own  garments,  softly,  tenderly. 


330  OLIVE   AND    VIOLET. 

For  it  was  hers,  —  this  child  she  could  not  see,  — 
The  only  thing  was  hers  in  all  the  world. 
And  then  —  no  more.    Ere  yet  the  chiming  bells 
Had  ceased  to  sound  the  child  was  motherless. 


Not  far  away,  a  stately  palace-home 
Was  draped  with  silence.     To  and  fro, 
With  mumed  footsteps,  went  the  servant  train ; 
And,  in  a  chamber,  richly  decked  by  art, 
The  lord  of  all  this  splendor  sat  alone. 
There  was  a  shadow  on  his  smooth,  broad  brow; 
A  restless  tremble  of  the  upper  lip ; 
A  sense  of  some  inquietude  within ; 
A  watching  of  the  door.     There  came  a  sound 
Of  slow,  descending  footsteps,  and  he  rose, 
Half  turning  as  he  rose.     A  man  came  in ; 
And  after  him  a  woman  with  a  child,  — 
A  little  babe  just  born  into  the  world ; 
Thus  early  brought  unto  its  father's  arms. 
He  took  his  baby-daughter  gently  up, 
Just  touched  its  little  cheek,  and  then,  —  "  My  wife?  " 
"  She  resteth  well,"  the  doctor  grave  replied, 
"  And  hath  all  tendance.     I  return  to  her."  — 
"  And  I  will  bring  my  daughter."    Carefully 
The  father  held  his  child ;  and  so  went  up 
Unto  the  darkened  chamber,  where  the  wife, 
So  lately  made  a  mother,  waited  him. 
The  child  laid  softly  by  the  mother's  side ; 
A  kiss,  pressed  light  upon  pale,  smiling  lips  ; 
A  few  low  words  of  manly  tenderness ; 
And  then  she  slept.     But  never  waking  came. 
And  when  the  morning  broke,  the  child  was  named 
By  its  dead  mother's  name. 

So  Death  had  come, 

And  by  his  touch  made  equal  these  two  souls. 
The  palace-home,  the  cold  and  ruined  hearth, 
Are  on  a  level  now.     Each  holds  the  dust 
Of  that  which  was  a  woman,  and  is  not. 
Each  doth  contain  a  little  helpless  thing 
That,  long  years  hence,  if  life  be  granted  it, 
Will  be  a  woman.     But  how  far  apart, 
Their  paths  in  life  shall  be ! 

Unto  our  eyes  — 

Half  blinded  by  the  dust  of  worldly  things  — 
These  children's  lots  do  most  unequal  seem; 
And  none  would  choose  the  ruined  hearth  for  home 
Before  the  rich  man's  palace.     Be  it  so,  — 


OLIVE   AND    VIOLET.  331 

GOD  seeth  not  as  we.     And,  in  the  day 
When  he  shall  count  his  jewels,  brightest  there 
Will  be  some  souls,  that  out  of  darkness  fought 
Their  way  unto  the  light ;  that  were  long  tried, 
Yea,  sorely  tempted ;  yet  rose  out  of  all, 
GOD'S  truest  servants,  worthy  to  obtain 
The  crown  they  never  thought  awaited  them ! 


Back  from  their  New- Year's  feast  the  revellers  came, 
To  find  the  old  house  tenanted  by  the  dead, 
Made  purer  by  the  presence  of  a  child 
Fresh  from  its  Maker's  hand.     Rough  were  they  all, 
And  foul  with  sin,  —  the  very  scum  and  froth 
Society  casts  forth  without  its  pale; 
The  dregs  that  lie  at  every  city's  heart, 
And  seethe  and  fester  there.     Yet  was  there  still 
A  touch  of  soundness  in  these  outcast  souls; 
A  something  of  the  angel  left  within, 
Called  forth  by  that  sad  sight.     With  gentle  hands 
They  took  the  child  from  off  its  mother's  breast, 
And  laid  the  dead  out  for  its  burial. 
They  thought  the  dead  face  seemed  to  smile  on  them, 
So  fair  and  sweet  it  was  !     All  lines  of  care 
Pressed  smooth  by  Death ;  all  marks  of  pain  effaced, 
As  if  the  soul  had  smiling  gone  to  Heaven ! 

Her  life  was  hid.     Her  very  name  unknown ; 
And  her  last  resting-place  the  Potter's  Field. 
The  child  could  never  know  its  mother's  name ! 

This  waif  of  Death  —  this  poor  and  broken  thing, 
Cast  up  upon  the  dark  and  slimy  shore 
Of  the  old  city  —  hath  well  done  its  work ; 
Hath  left  the  impress  of  some  better  things 
On  brows  all  stained  with  crime ;  and  given  up, 
Unto  the  keeping  of  these  sinful  hearts, 
The  little  dove  that  shall  bring  peace  to  all. 

We  rarely  think  how  very  near  a  child 
Is  unto  GOD;  from  out  whose  hand,  so  late 
The  little  spirit  came  to  make  its  home 
In  those  weak  walls  of  flesh.     Alas  !  the  sin, 
That  with  our  dust  is  coexistent  found, 
Shall  try  the  spirit  sorely ;  and  the  strife 
Begun  in  cradle  will  not  cease  on  earth 
Until  Death  end  it  with  his  still,  cold  hand,  — 
The  hand  whose  touch  brings  peace  unto  the  heart 


332  OLIVE  AND    VIOLET. 

Whose  pulses  throb  no  more  forever.    Peace, 

As  given  to  the  soul,  doth  come  from  GOD, 

And  hath  its  home  beyond  the  shores  of  Death. 

It  dies  not  with  the  dust.     Oh !  fair  and  sweet, 

Past  all  our  dreaming,  is  the  little  child 

On  whose  pure  brow  the  dews  of  heaven  lie 

Fresh  from  the  holy  font !     The  little  one, 

That  knows  no  soiling  of  the  dust  as  yet; 

A  precious  lamb  out  of  the  fold  of  GOD, 

Upon  whose  brow  the  Master's  mark  is  set ; 

The  little  child  that  Jesus  calls  to  him 

With  so  sweet  words  :     "  Forbid  them  not 

To  come  unto  me ;  for  of  such  as  these 

Is  the  kingdom.     Their  angels  ever  stand 

Before  the  face  of  my  Father  in  heaven." 

Is  it  not  written  that  he  took  them  up 

Into  his  arms,  and  blessed  them?    He,  the  GOD, 

The  mighty  Lord  of  Hosts,  —  the  Virgin-Born ; 

Who  shall  be  called  Wonderful,  Counsellor, 

The  Everlasting  Father,  Prince  of  Peace ! 

And  "  He  that  was,  and  is,  and  is  to  come,"  — 

Yet  so  loved  us  that  from  his  throne  on  high 

He  stooped  to  earth,  and  clothed  himself  in  flesh ; 

And  veiled  his  Godhead  in  a  woman's  womb ; 

And  was  obedient  even  unto  death  : 

The  death  accursed,  — the  Death  upon  the  Cross ! 

That  agony  endured  was  never  finite  pain, 

As  ours  is,  but  infinite  as  a  GOD'S. 

That  shame  despised  was  gathered  from  all  years 

And  poured  in  fire  on  his  sacred  head ; 

And  there  was  never  sorrow  like  to  his ! 

Through  all  the  years  to  come  this  shame  is  borne ; 

O'er  all  the  future  doth  this  sorrow  fall ; 

And  for  all  time,  this  deathless  agony 

Shall  he,  the  Saviour,  bear  until  the  end ; 

When  the  full  work,  of  man's  redemption  wrought, 

Shall  hail  Christ  conqueror ;  and  all  the  earth, 

With  all  its  kingdoms,  shall  become  the  Lord's ; 

And  time  shall  be  no  more ! 

Our  puny  thought 

Cannot  attain  the  glorious  heights  of  pain 
Wherewith  our  GOD  doth  battle.    All  our  lore 
Could  never  reckon  o'er  the  years  of  shame 
That  in  the  Future's  womb  lie  darkening; 
And  all  our  woe,  from  Adam  until  now, 
Were  light  as  dust,  before  that  awful  grief 
That  rests,  as  night,  upon  the  brow  of  Christ ! 


OLIVE   AND    VIOLET.  333 

Yet  he,  the  Holy  One,  keeps  watch  and  ward, 
And  careth  for  his  own.     He  heareth  still 
The  cry  of  the  poor  and  desolate  ones ; 
And  in  our  sickness  maketh  all  our  bed. 
He  leadeth  home  the  lost  and  wandering  sheep, 
And  makes  them  to  lie  down  in  pastures  green, 
Where  living  waters  flow.     And  when  we  tread 
The  Valley  Dark,  he  doth  uphold  our  feet ; 
His  rod  and  staff"  do  comfort  us  alway. 
And  in  the  desert  and  the  wilderness, 
He  is  as  "  the  Shadow  of  a  great  Rock 
In  a  weary  land."    With  a  Brother's  love 
He  careth  for  the  children. 

Silently, 

As  flowers  grow,  the  little  waiflet  won 
A  place  in  every  corner  of  the  house 
She  sweetened  by  her  coming.     Not  a  hearth, 
Though  bare  and  cold,  but  seemed  to  gain  a  glow 
If  she  but  came  to  it ;  and  the  old  house 
Was  slowly  putting  on  a  cleaner  garb ; 
"  Because  the  child  would  soon  be  creeping  round." 
Men,  old  in  crime,  whose  careworn,  restless  hearts 
Had  known  no  sunshine  all  these  many  years, 
Did  feel  its  warmth  when  in  their  arms  they  took 
The  little  Olive.     So  they  called  the  child, 
As  though  some  shadow  of  her  life-work  looked 
From  out  the  sweet,  blue  eyes.    Hands,  large  and  rough, 
And  sinewy  arms,  did  learn  a  tender  use, 
That  made  their  strength  seem  nought,  "  holding  baby." 
And  the  fierce  brows  grew  soft,  as  little  arms 
Were  stretched  to  meet  them,  and  they  heard  the  child's 
Sweet  crow  of  triumph,  as  it  pulled  the  hair 
That  once  was  not  so  smooth.     No  oaths  were  heard. 
Their  very  voices  had  a  gentle  ring 
Answering  the  child's  low  cooing.     Sullen  lips 
Arched  into  smiles,  or  else  they  dared  not  kiss 
The  baby's  little  mouth,  but  stood  aloof; 
With  such  dark  fire  burning  in  their  eyes 
As  blazes  forth  from  the  despairing  orbs 
Of  fallen  angels,  coveting  the  heaven 
They  have  forever  lost ! 

And  women,  sunk 

In  such  foul  depths  that  never  human  hand 
Might  draw  them  thence,  did  reverence  the  child 
That,  pure  as  snow,  brought  some  pale  shadow  back 
Of  their  lost  womanhood.     A  shuddering  thought 
Of  days  when  they  were  children  like  to  this,  — 
Of  happy  homes  they  left  so  long  ago 


334  OLIVE   AND    VIOLET. 

Darkened  forever  by  their  Death  in  Life. 
They  had  no  tears,  these  women.     That  sweet  fount 
Was  dried  up  long  years  since ;  no  more  to  flow 
Unless  GOD'S  hand  should  smite  the  stony  heart 
And  bid  the  waters  rise  to  heal  and  save. 

Despair  not,  O  ye  fallen !     Even  yet 
Ye  may  find  refuge  from  the  bitter  storm, — 
An  ark  of  safety  'mid  the  fearful  sea 
That  surges  o'er  ye.    And,  though  ye  be  "  dead 
In  trespasses  and  sin,"  ye  yet  may  live. 
Through  all  the  noise  of  eighteen  hundred  years 
The  voice  of  Jesus  comes  :  "  Go,  sin  no  more !  "  * 
Behold !  ye  took  the  little  stranger  in ; 
Ye  clothed  it  with  your  best ;  ye  gave  it  all 
Was  fitting  for  its  needs,  — food,  raiment,  time,  — 
Not  knowing  that  ye  took  an  angel  home ; 
Not  knowing,  or  forgetting  words  like  these : 
"  Inasmuch  as  ye  did  it  unto  one 
The  least  of  these  my  brethen,  know  that  ye 
Have  done  it  unto  me." 

These  women's  hearts 

Had  long  been  dead  within  them.     Sin  had  killed 
All  blossoms  fair  of  childhood's  innocence ; 
And  in  their  stead  grew  noisome,  pestilent  weeds, 
That  drained  the  blood  of  sweetness  ;  made  more  sure 
The  deadly  poison  of  the  life  they  lived ; 
Made  nothing  fair  save  the  swift  road  to  hell 
They  never  thought  to  leave.     They  saw  no  path 
Unto  a  purer  air.     They  knew  no  way 
Save  that  they  walked  in,  and  its  end  was  deatn. 
The  former  years  were  nothing  to  them  now ; 
They  could  not  bring  them  back,  nor  yet  return 
Unto  the  sunshine  of  the  olden  days. 
They  were  too  far  away,  —  shut  out  by  years 
Of  bitterness  and  sin.     They  saw  no  hand 
Outstretched  to  save,  across  the  darkening  gulf; 
And  so  they  went  down  quick  into  the  grave 
Of  the  great  city,  and  were  seen  no  more ! 

Unto  these  women  came  this  new-born  child, 
This  little  Olive,  as  a  light  that  shines 
In  a  dark  place,  stirring  some  pulses  there 
That  had  not  beat  for  many  a  long  year. 
This  ray  of  sunshine  fell,  all  warm  and  soft, 
Upon  these  ice-bound  hearts,  just  touching  them 
To  a  more  gentle  mood ;  winning  its  way 
Where  storm  and  tempest  might  have  beat  in  vain. 


OLIVE   AND    VIOLET.  335 

Verily,  the  child  was  as  an  angel 

Sent  to  redeem  and  save !     Foul  tongues  were  mute; 

The  awful  jesting  of  the  fallen  hushed 

In  presence  of  her  purity.     A  sense 

Of  inward  shame,  that  would  not  brook  control, 

Abased  their  spirits,  when  they  touched  the  hands 

So  white,  as  theirs  can  never  be  again ; 

And  yet  they  were  ashamed  of  feeling  shame ! 

They  did  not  know  whose  Spirit  was  at  work, 

And  that  the  thing  they  strove  to  drive  away 

Was  the  faint  embryo  of  a  better  life 

Yet  cold  and  dead;  but  "  the  breath  of  the  Lord, 

Like  a  stream  of  fire,  shall  kindle  it !  " 

And  so  the  years  passed  on.     The  child  grew  fast. 
Soon  little  feet  went  pattering  on  the  floor; 
Soon  little  hands  were  busy  all  the  day ; 
And  little  eyes  of  looking  never  weary. 
For  them  the  world  was  gathered  in  small  space. 
A  few  old  rooms,  a  narrow,  narrow  street, 
With  one  small  bit  of  sky,  but  never  sun. 
The  house  was  small.     Shut  in  by  warerooms  huge 
That  coveted  the  sunlight;  let  no  ray 
Of  all  its  golden  many,  smile  upon 
The  old  house  in  the  alley.     No  bad  type 
Were  they,  of  some  who  fain  would  shut  God's  light 
From  out  a  world  they  love  not  overmuch. 
Only  they  cannot  do  it.     So,  in  this. 
The  over-topping  warerooms  shut  out  sun, 
But  never  sunlight.     And  when  sunlight  went 
The  silent  stars  were  shining  all  the  night,  — 
Were  shining  down  —  on  what?    We  will  but  say 
On  the  old  house  in  the  alley.     Weather-stained 
Were  walls  and  roof;  but  darker  stains,  they  said, 
Had  once  been  seen  upon  the  oaken  floor ; 
Traced  through  the  passage,  down  the  shaking  stairs, 
Where'er  the  red  drops  fell,  as  slow  they  bore 
A  murdered  man  into  the  open  air. 
But  this  was  long  ago.     Time  had  effaced 
All  tokens  of  that  crime ;  and  they  who  dwelt 
Beneath  the  roof-tree  of  the  old  house  now, 
Knew  nothing  of  its  Past,  nor  cared  to  know. 
It  gave  them  shelter  in  the  burning  heat, 
It  shut  out  something  of  the  bitter  cold, 
And  gave  them  each  a  refuge  for  the  night. 
They  liked  the  old  house  well.     Since  Olive  came 
It  wore  a  brighter  aspect.     Doors  unhung, 
Went  back  to  their  old  use.    The  few  whole  panes 


33G  OLIVE   AND    VIOLET. 

That  graced  the  windows  were  kept  somewhat  clean; 

And  for  the  rest  (a  whim  to  please  the  child), 

They  were  as  many- colored  as  the  light 

That  shone  but  dimly  through  them.     Pictures  strange, 

Torn  down  from  some  old  fence  (for  Olive's  sake), 

Were  pasted  on  the  walls.     Grotesque  and  grim, 

It  may  be,  in  themselves,  but  something  worth 

For  the  kind  thoughtfuluess  that  placed  them  there. 

A  chair  or  two,  both  old  and  rickety, 

Helped  furnish  forth  each  room;  and  for  all  else, 

Each  did  the  least  they  could,  till  Olive  came, 

And  then  their  wants  grew  many.     She  had  brought 

Unto  these  women  some  old  memories  back 

Of  quiet  country  homes,  where  neatness  reigned. 

And  all,  though  plain,  was  clean.     So  the  old  house 

Began  to  show  the  changes  of  the  time, 

And  wore  its  novel  honors  daintily. 

It  was  not  used  to  much ;  so  made  the  most 

Of  clean-swept  chambers,  and  of  mended  doors. 

Perhaps  it  dreamed  that  in  some  coming  day, 

The  warm,  bright  sun  it  had  not  seen  for  years 

Would  peep  above  the  warerooms,  just  to  see 

If  still  the  little  house  were  standing  there ! 

One  room  was  empty,  —  had  been  vacant  long,  — 
But  when  our  Olive  was  just  three  years  old 
It  had  a  tenant  found.     An  aged  man 
Who  once  had  been  a  sailor,  bat  the  sea 
Would  never  greet  him  more !     Decrepit,  old, 
Worn  out  in  heavy  service,  all  his  strength 
Did  scarce  suffice  to  bear  him  on  his  rounds. 
He  was  a  gatherer  of  paper,  —  rags,  — 
But  nothing  ever  came  amiss  to  him. 
No  thing  so  small  but  had  its  proper  use, 
And  should  be  put  to  it.     So  argued  he, 
And  soon  his  room  a  small  museum  grew, 
Of  such  rare  things  as  sometimes  find  their  way 
Into  the  ash-box ;  or  had  gathered  been 
In  some  old  voyage,  made  when  he  was  young, 
And  some  one  waited  for  his  coming  home. 
That  day  is  passed  and  dead.     Once  he  brought  back 
Some  rare  rich  shells  of  wondrous  hues  and  shapes, 
Some  carved  trifles  cut  by  Chinese  hands, 
And  found  a  grave,  not  yet  with  grass  grown  o'er, 
Was  all  that  waited  him.     He  had  them  still, 
The  curious  tinted  shells,  and  carved  toys, 
And,  when  he  was  at  home,  would  play  with  them 
As  any  child  might  do.     Poor,  simple  heart ! 


OLIVE   AND    VIOLET.  337 

So  young  —  so  true  —  so  near  the  other  world  — 

And  yet  it  nothing  knew  of  that  sweet  lore 

Which  opes  the  door  of  Heaven  to  the  soul ! 

He  had  no  key  to  unlock  that  mystery. 

The  hope  that  makes  all  earthly  burdens  light 

Had  not  yet  come  to  him.     But  he  had  lived 

Up  to  the  light  he  had.    Had  kept  him  pure, 

As  it  were  unconsciously,  by  the  love 

He  bore  the  early  dead.     How  came  he  here ? 

The  men  and  women  round  him  were  not  like 

The  men  —  the  woman  —  he  knew  long  ago. 

What  brought  him  to  this  house  ?    A  child's  sweet  face,— 

The  very  image  of  that  other  face 

Above  whose  rest  the  sea-winds  swept  at  night. 

One  day,  —  it  was  a  day  of  summer-time,  — 
He  had  a  heavy  load  to  bear  away 
(Some  refuse  paper,  and  odd  scraps  and  ends, 
Thrown  from  the  ware-rooms) ;  and  a  storm  came  on. 
Shelter  was  there  none,  save  the  dark  portal 
Of  that  old  house ;  and  thitherward  he  sped ; 
His  burthen  growing  heavier  as  he  went. 
There  Olive  found  him,  weary,  well-nigh  spent, 
And  made  him  enter,  prattling  all  the  while, 
As  children  wont  to  do.    And  so  it  chanced 
That  he  came  here  to  live. 

He  had  not  kept 

His  pretty  shells  and  curious  toys  for  long, 
But  that  the  child  did  love  them.     So  all  talk 
Of  stealing  them  from  him  did  end  in  talk. 
The  child  kept  royal  state,  and  had  her  way,  — 
Most  queens  have  not,  —  and  no  one  came  between 
Her  subjects  and  herself.    Her  little  feet 
Were  free  to  wander  in  and  out  of  rooms, 
That  else  had  been  close  shut,  and  she  had  made 
Room  for  herself  in  every  heart  also. 
They  could  not  keep  her  out ;  did  never  try. 
What  had  they  been,  if  Olive  had  not  come, 
A  ray  of  sunshine  to  their  wintry  hearts  ? 
As  sweet,  as  welcome,  as  to  parched  lips 
Are  fountains  springing  in  the  wilderness ! 
If  such  she  were  unto  these  arid  souls 
That,  dry  as  dust,  were  withering  away 
For  lack  of  Heaven's  dew,  we  dare  not  say 
What  place  she  held  in  that  old  sailor's  heart. 
He  all  but  worshipped  her.     She  used  to  sit 
Upon  the  steps,  when  summer  days  were  long, 
And  wait  his  coming.    No  more  welcome  sight 
22 


t>3«  OLIVE  AND    VIOLET. 

Is  land  to  weary  mariner  from  the  sea, 

Than  was  the  little  figure  sitting  there 

To  that  old  sailor's  eyes.     His  step  grew  light, 

That  was  so  heavy  late ;  and  all  the  heat 

And  burden  of  the  day  did  drop  away 

From  off  his  shoulders,  as  a  cloak  might  fall. 

All  was  forgotten,  when  he  took  his  place 

Beside  her  on  the  steps,  and  sang  to  her 

Some  quaint  old  ballad  of  the  olden  time 

She  dearly  loved  to  hear.     What  though  the  voice 

Were  partly  cracked,  and  somewhat  quavering? 

There  had  been  music  in  it,  and  was  still, 

To  little  Olive's  ear.    For  no  one  else 

Had  ever  sung  to  her.     For  no  one  else, 

In  all  that  house,  had  ever  heart  to  sing! 

It  may  be  —  in  the  dead,  forgotten  years, 
When  these  poor  shadows  were  all  young  and  fair  — 
There  had  been  singing  on  the  withered  lips 
That  had  no  memory  of  music  now. 
It  may  have  been ;  but  sin  had  long  since  dulled 
All  finer  senses,  and  those  yet  retained 
Were  little  more  than  base  and  animal. 
Their  souls  seemed  buried  in  so  dark  a  grave, 
That  you  had  thought  for  them  could  never  be 
A  resurrection  morning !     Wait,  and  hope ! 
Since,  in  GOD'S  time,  his  gracious  hand  may  sow 
Some  precious  seed  upon  this  sterile  soil,  — 
A  seed  that,  nourished  by  his  quickening  grace, 
May  germ  and  leaf,  bring  forth  both  bud  and  flower; 
May  ripen  yet,  and  to  his  harvest  grow 
For  the  ingathering  of  the  angels. 
So  wait  and  hope !     On  this  side  of  the  grave 
We  may  have  hope.     Who  sails  beyond  that  shore 
Leaves  hope  behind.    We  know  "  there  is  no  work, 
Nor  knowledge,  nor  device,"  nor  time,  nor  yet 
Repentance  in  the  grave.    But,  ere  the  wave 
Of  Death  flows  o'er  us  never  to  recede,  — 
While  yet  the  heart  with  busy  throb  doth  keep 
The  curious  mechanism  of  our  frame 
Complete  in  all  its  parts,  instinct  with  life, 
And  all  Life's  attributes,  —  ere  yet  the  wheel 
Is  broken  at  the  cistern,  there  is  hope ! 
The  laborer  hired  at  the  eleventh  hour 
Received  likewise  a  penny. 

Days  went  on ; 

And  little  Olive's  lips  were  learning  fast 
The  need  of  questioning.    The  time  had  come 


OLIVE   AND    VIOLET.  339 

When  all  the  old  man's  lore,  enough  till  now, 

Was  insufficient  found.     He  had  been  wont 

To  stay  at  home  one  day  in  every  week,  — 

"  One  day  in  seven,"  —  and  she  oft  had  asked 

The  why  and  wherefore.     Still  unsatisfied, 

Because  he  did  not  tell  her  all  the  truth. 

And  so,  one  day  — he  went  not  out  that  day —     ' 

She  came  to  him,  with  sober,  quiet  face  : 

"  I  want  to  know,"  she  said,  "  why  you  stay  here." 

"  I  have  no  work  to  do.     None  work  to-day." 

"  What  do  they  then?  "     "  They  stay  at  home,  as  I, 

Or  go  to  church."    Then  sharp  she  questioned  him: 

"  What  is  a  church,  and  why  do  people  go?  " 

And  sorely  puzzled  was  the  man  to  give 

The  fitting  answer.     "  Come,  show  me  a  church !  " 

And,  hand  in  hand,  the  old  man  and  the  child 

Went  forth  together.     Nor  had  far  to  go ; 

Just  round  the  corner  stood  an  old-time  church ; 

Past  which,  through  all  the  week,  the  roar  of  trade 

Was  loudly  sounding.     Now  the  streets  were  still ; 

And  through  its  arched  windows  floated  tones 

The  child  had  never  heard.     An  organ's  swell, 

And  voices  many  singing  an  old  psalm. 

Awe-struck,  she  listened.     "  May  we  not  go  in?  " 

And,  yielding  to  her  touch,  the  old  man  went 

Within  the  open  door,  and  paused  there. 

He  did  not  dare  to  enter;  but  the  child, 

Who  had  no  fears,  went  wandering  up  the  aisle. 

A  gentle  hand  did  stay  her,  else  her  feet 

Had  borne  her  on  upon  the  chancel-floor, 

To  see  the  stained  window  that  she  thought 

So  bright  and  beautiful,  —  a  gentle  hand, 

That  touched  her  own,  and  softly  drew  her  back, 

And  gave  her  place  beside  him.     Still  she  sat  — 

Her  wonder  kept  her  silent—  till  the  church, 

And  all  she  saw  and  heard,  were  graven  deep 

On  heart  and  memory.     But,  at  the  last, 

She  turned  to  look  up  at  the  grave,  sad  face 

Of  him  who  held  her  hand,  and  conned  it  o'er 

With  such  a  sober  seriousness  of  mien 

As  suited  well  the  task.     Not  long  she  looked. 

The  little  eyes  grew  heavy,  and  the  head 

Went  nodding  at  the  sermon ;  till  it  fell 

Against  the  arm  was  nearest  unto  her, 

And  she  was  fast  asleep.    The  arm  was  drawn 

Around  her  quietly,  and  the  earnest  eyes 

Just  dwelt  a  moment  on  the  sweet,  pale  face, 

Brown,  waving  hair,  and  softly-parted  lips, 


340  OLIVE   AND    VIOLET. 

Then  looked  upon  the  preacher.     Sweet  and  low 

The  organ  sounded  forth  an  interlude 

That  woke  the  child ;  and  from  the  patient  arms, 

That  were  well  pleased  such  burden  sweet  to  bear, 

She  started  up,  half-frightened  not  to  see 

The  old  man's  face.     Then  slowly  turned  her  round, 

To  see,  still  waiting  at  the  open  door, 

The  one  familiar  form  ;  and  with  light  foot 

She  trotted  clown  the  aisle,  and,  hand  in  hand, 

They  twain  went  home. 

No  dearth  of  questions  now, 
Questions  that  made  the  old  man  sad  at  heart ; 
Until  he  talked  to  Olive,  as  if  she 
Were  not  a  child,  but  woman.     All  the  tale 
She  had  not  heard  before  was  told  her  then. 
How  he  was  once  a  little  child,  like  her, 
And  had  a  home  beside  the  soundless  sea, 
A  father  and  a  mother.     (These  were  words 
Most  strange  to  Olive,  and  she  questioned  him 
What  they  might  mean.     He  made  it  plain  to  her 
As  best  he  could,  then  went  on  with  his  tale.) 
"  But  they  were  poor;  had  suffered  hunger,  want, 
Gone  through  much  trouble ;  and  yet  were  content. 
They  never  murmured ;  and  when  I  was  born 
My  mother's  heart  did  sing  for  very  joy ; 
As  if  I  was  not  to  those  busy  hands 
An  added  burthen.    But  she  only  worked 
A  little  harder  when  her  strength  came  back. 
I  learned  this  afterward.     My  father  was 
A  fisher  on  the  sea.     I  went  with  him, 
It  may  be,  once  or  twice,  and  then,  one  morn, 
He  went  alone,  and  never  came  to  shore. 
I  mind  me  well,  how  all  that  weary  night 
We  waited  his  return,  till  morning  broke 
And  brought  no  tidings.     So  for  many  days 
We  watched  and  waited ;  but  hope  faded  soon. 
He  never  came,  and  my  poor  mother's  face 
Was  growing  paler,  paler  every  day ; 
Till  at  the  last-she  died,  and  I  went  forth, 
A  sailor-boy  to  sea." 

"  And  was  there,  then, 
No  little  girl  like  me  in  that  old  house, 
To  wait  and  watch  for  you  ?  " 

"Not  then,  nor  there. 
But,  little  one,  the  day  is  long  past  noon, 
And  I  am  weary."     So  he  left  her,  perched 
Upon  the  topmost  step,  and  slowly  went 
Up  to  his  own  still  chamber ;  there  to  dream 


OLIVE   AND    VIOLET.  341 

The  old  days  back  when  one  did  wait  and  watch 
Through  three  long  years  for  him.  The  fourth  year  brought 
The  sailor  back,  but  only  to  a  grave !  — 
A  grave  that  GOD  did  set  before  him  then 
To  keep  him  from  much  evil.    And  it  kept 
The  man's  soul  purer  by  its  memory. 

Who  saith  the  grave  is  but  a  charnel-house, 
"Full  of  dead  men's  bones,  and  all  uncleanness"? 
We  do  not  say  that  this  may  not  be  so ; 
But  graves  have  higher  uses.     It  is  true 
Corruption  is  therein ;  and  gases  foul 
Are  there  engendered.     These  are  things  of  time 
And  have  their  ending;  but  this  dust  shall  rise; 
"  This  mortal  put  on  immortality." 
And  then,  "  Where  is  thy  victory,  0 Grave? 
And  where,  O  Death,  thy  sting?" 

Some  graves  there  are 

That  through  long  ages  have  been  sacred  held, 
And  bear  deep  traces  of  the  pilgrim's  feet. 
The  Moslem  braves  the  Simoon's  deadly  blast, 
And  drifting  desert-sands,  to  say  his  prayers 
At  Mecca's  holy  shrine ;  and,  in  some  lands, 
Honors  divine  are  paid  to  dust  of  saints. 
Nations  fought  against  nations,  for  the  tomb 
That  once  held  Christ  our  King;  and  all  earth's  years 
Shall  bear  the  mighty  impress  of  that  strife. 
In  those  old  days,  when  immaterial  things 
Did  take  material  shapes,  men  fought  and  died 
Beneath  the  sacred  banner  of  the  Cross, 
That  so  Jerusalem  the  Holy  might 
Be  freed  from  Paynim  rule.     In  these  our  days 
The  same  old  strife  is  waged ;  but  human  hearts 
Are  now  the  battle-grounds. 

Some  graves  there  are, 

Unnoted  and  unknown,  which  yet  have  kept 
A  soul  from  death  by  their  strong  memory. 
The  dust  within  them  hath  a  charmed  spell, 
And  true  the  hearts  that  own  its  mastery. 
We  knew  a  man,  who  died  while  yet  the  dew 
Of  youth  was  fresh  upon  him.     All  his  life 
He  moved  among  us  meekly,  lovingly, 
As  one  who  walketh  humbly  with  his  GOD, 
And  when  he  died,  his  lowly  grave  did  seem 
An  open  portal  leading  unto  Heaven. 
That  grave,  so  quiet  'mid  the  city's  roar, 
Had  precious  influences,  hath  them  still  ; 
And  some  who  walk  as  GOD'S  own  children  now 


342  OLIVE   AND    VIOL 81. 

Do  know  that  grave  was  as  a  door  of  life 

To  their  unthinking  souls.     So,  evermore, 

GOD  grant  that  from  the  dust  of  graves  may  spring 

The  buds  and  blossoms  that  bear  fruit  for  Heaven ! 


Tis  strange  to  stand  beside  a  form  we  know, 
And  hear  no  breathing,  feel  no  throbbing  pulse. 
All  is  so  calm,  so  still,  so  motionless ; 
So  like  to  sleep,  and  yet  so  all  unlike. 
No  sleeper's  brow  hath  such  a  changeless  calm. 
No  sleeper's  hands  lie  folded  on  a  breast 
That  hath  forgotten  motion,  and  no  lips 
Of  any  sleeper  are  so  cold  as  these. 
This  sleep  hath  never  waking;  and  these  lips 
Have  lost  their  music ;  hushed  and  pale,  but  sweet, 
And  faintly  smiling  still.     Death  hath  set  here 
The  seal  of  silence,  not  to  be  broken 
Until  the  resurrection  of  the  dead. 

All  dead,  there  is  no  life  !    All  dust,  no  soul ! 
'Tis  but  the  shadow  of  the  one  we  knew; 
And  all  our  grief  is  dumb  before  the  cold 
And  awful  stillness  of  that  silent  form. 
"With  what  vain  longing,  with  what  useless  love 
We  kneel  beside  the  dead,  and  wildly  pray 
That  GOD  will  yet  bring  back  the  parted  soul, 
And  give  our  treasure  to  our  arms  again ! 
So  knelt  the  rich  man  by  the  royal  couch 
That  held  his  pride,  the  wife  of  one  sweet  year; 
So  wildly  prayed.     Hush !  such  words  are  not  meet 
For  that  still  presence,  and  the  soft  rebuke 
Of  that  dear  face  hath  hushed  the  words  that  came 
From  the  strong  man's  agony.     To  and  fro 
He  paced  the  quiet  chamber.     To  and  fro, 
Through  all  the  weary  day,  and  through  the  night 
That  followed  after ;  till  his  ceaseless  tread 
Was  all  that  broke  the  stillness  of  the  house 
That  Death  had  entered  with  so  swift  a  step, 
And  left  all  joyless. 

O'er  the  city-streets, 

Already  full  of  life,  the  day  dawned  bright ; 
Bathing  in  crimson  all  the  snow-touched  roofs, 
The  far-off  mountains,  and  the  frozen  stream. 
The  air  was  full  of  frost ;  was  bracing,  crisp ; 
And  here  and  there,  sleigh-bells  were  ringing  out 
A  carol  unto  Winter  joyously ! 
This  death  stilled  not  their  music.    It  crossed  not 


OLIVE    AND    VIOLET.  343 

The  myriad  circles  that  make  up  the  sum 

Of  the  great  city's  life ;  and  scarce  was  known 

Beyond  the  home  that  was  her  home  no  more. 

So,  to  the  home  that  hath  distinctive  rank, 

"  The  home  for  all  the  living,"  she  was  borne. 

They  broke  untrodden  snow  to  make  her  grave, 

And  left  her  lying  where  the  sun  shone  cold 

On  the  City  of  the  Silent.     There,  in  spring, 

Pale  snow-drops  grew,  and  fragrant  violets 

That  named  her  when  they  bloomed.     And  so  his  hand 

Had  set  the  flowers  there.     Within  his  home, 

The  little  baby  she  had  given  him, 

A  tiny  bud,  another  Violet, 

Was  waiting  him.     Something  to  tend  and  love, 

And  be  most  dear  to  him  in  after  years ; 

But  nothing  now.     And  so  the  little  one 

Did  never  see  her  father,  and  was  left 

To  give  her  first  caress,  —  her  first  sweet  love,  — 

Unto  the  gentle  nurse,  who  loved  the  child 

As  it  had  been  her  very  flesh  and  blood, 

And  not  another's.     So  the  days  went  on. 

The  rich  man  prospered.    "Wealth  flowed  unto  him 
As  a  river  to  the  sea.     Far  and  wide 
His  name  was  honored,  and  his  worth  confessed ; 
But  he  cared  little  for  the  praise  of  men. 
Strong  in  his  own  integrity  he  stood, 
And  stooped  not  servilely  for  gold  nor  power. 
He  had  enough  of  both.     But  at  his  heart 
A  shadow  sat;  and  in  his  cup  of  life 
One  bitter  drop  was  mingled,  dulling  all 
The  sparkle  of  the  wine.     The  little  grave, 
Where  he  had  laid  his  darling  down  to  rest, 
Rose  evermore  between  him  and  all  joy,  — 
Yea,  made  it  agony  to  look  upon 
His  baby-daughter's  face. 

He  went  abroad 

To  find  oblivion,  but  there  followed  him 
A  haunting  shape,  "  to  startle  and  waylay." 
He  trod  the  Old  World  with  unresting  feet. 
The  sands,  that  for  two  thousand  years  have  swept 
Above  the  giant  cities  of  the  Past, 
Low-burying  all  their  pride,  did  know  his  tread; 
And  ancient  Nile,  upon  its  waters,  bore 
The  New  World's  restless  child.    He  crossed  the  plains, 
Where  for  full  forty  years  ("  when  Israel 
Came  out  of  Egypt  ")  Moses  led  their  tribes ; 
Till  every  man  who  through  the  Keel  Sea  came 


344  OLIVE   AND    VIOLET. 

Had  perished  in  the  wilderness.     He  saw 

Far-off,  and  near,  the  Mount  that  burned  with  fire; 

And  Pisgah  rose  before  him,  sad  and  still, 

Whence  Moses  looked  upon  the  Promised  Land 

His  feet  might  never  tread !     The  Holy  Land 

Made  bare  its  ruins ;  gave  him  food  for  thought ; 

And  brought  back  memories  of  the  sacred  lore 

Learned  at  his  mother's  knee.     He  knew  it  well, — 

The  story  sweet  of  old;  but  from  his  heart 

The  world  had  shut  its  holy  teachings  out ; 

They  came  not  home  to  him.     Yea,  even  now, 

When  he  was  passing  o'er  Judea's  plains, 

By  Jordan's  stream,  then  at  its  time  of  flood, 

Or  rested  on  the  Mount  of  Olivet, 

He  did  not  read  its  meaning  all  aright. 

Verily,  this  man  had  no  ears  to  hear, 

No  eyes  to  see,  the  things  which  are  of  GOD  ; 

And  sacred  places  were  not  so  to  him. 

Else  he  had  never  trod  on  Olivet, 

Nor  walked  the  Garden  of  Gethsemane, 

In  merely  curious  mood ! 

"  GOD  is  strong, 

And  very  patient !  "    What  adds  the  Psalmist  ? 
"  Yet  GOD  is  provoked  every  day !  " 

This  rich  man  wandered  long,  yet  found  no  rest. 
Where'er  he  went,  there  followed  him  alway 
The  haunting  shadow  of  the  fair,  young  wife 
Whose  dust  was  lying  'neath  a  sunny  slope, 
A  thousand  miles  away.     A  fevered  thought  — 
A  longing  wish  that  he  could  only  look 
Once  more  on  her,  and  die  —  came  to  his  heart ; 
And  then  all  speed  was  slow,  and  worse  than  slow, 
To  his  wild  wish  for  home. 

And  home  he  came. 

He  seemed  to  feel  no  change.     He  did  not  ask 
To  see  his  child,  the  little  Violet, 
But  went  alone  unto  that  chamber,  where 
We  saw  him  last ;  the  room  wherein  she  died. 
And  so  the  evening  and  the  long  night  passed 
Of  his  first  clay  at  home.     The  morning  brought 
Another  mood,  another  life  to  him. 

Light  tripping  down  the  stairs,  into  the  room 
Where  he  was  sitting,  lonely,  sad,  and  stern, 
There  came  a  tiny  shape.     "Papa!  papa!" 
(Through  all  his  after  life  that  glad,  sweet  cry 
Was  ringing  on  his  ears)  and  round  his  neck 


OLIVE   AND    VIOLET.  345 

The  little  arms  were  thrown.    He  held  her  close, 
This  fairy  form,  so  like  to  his  dead  wife, 
Low  murmuring  o'er  and  o'er,  "My  Violet !  " 
"That  is  my  name,"  she  said  ;  "  it" was  mamma's." 
She  did  not  heed  the  sudden  start  he  gave, 
But  laid  her  head  against  his  shoulder  broad, 
And  smiled,  as  if  content.     Her  soft,  warm  hands 
Played  hide-and-seek  in  his.     Her  rich,  brown  hair 
Fell  curling  o'er  his  arm.     The  snowy  dress, 
The  tiny,  crimson  shoes,  —  soft  lips  as  red,  — 
And  eyes  of  brown,  sweet  smiling  up  at  him, 
All  made  a  picture  that  the  father's  heart 
Kept  tenderly  alway. 

She  was  not  shy,  — 
This  little  Violet,  —nor  yet  too  bold. 
But  free  as  children  are  who  have  not  known 
What  'tis  to  fear  a  blow,  nor  yet  a  frown. 
Her  life  had  had  no  cloud.     She  had  not  missed 
A  mother's  loving  care,  since  Janet  sought 
With  all  her  heart  to  fill  that  mother's  place. 
She  taught  the  baby-lips  that  sweetest  prayer, 
Which  calleth  GOD  "  Our  Father,"  and  she  spoke 
Full  often  of  the  father  far  away 
Who  would  come  home  some  day ;  and  so  the  child, 
In  her  sweet,  prattling  mood,  would  softly  talk 
Of  the  two  fathers  she  had  never  seen, 
But  yet,  should  see,  some  day. 

And  so  it  chanced 

That  when  her  earthly  father  home  returned, 
The  little  one  was  glad.     She  told  him  so ; 
And  asked  him  "  if  he  knew  when  she  should  see 
The  Father  up  in  heaven  ?    Janet  says 
I  must  be  very  good  to  go  to  him. 
That  some  time  soon,  or  not  for  many  years, 
He  may  come  for  me ;  and  then  I  shall  see 
My  own  mamma.     Will  you  go,  too,  papa?" 
A  simple  question,  but  it  tortured  him. 
The  strong  heart  was  not  strong  before  the  gaze 
Of  those  inquiring  eyes.     The  strong  frame  shook; 
But  there  was  no  reply.     He  did  not  dare 
To  answer  "yes,"  and  would  not  answer  "no." 

This  man  was  skilled  in  science,  and  the  lore 
Of  many  ages  was  not  hid  from  him. 
He  knew  most  languages,  had  seen  all  lands, 
Yet  had  not  learned  the  grandest  truth  of  all. 
The  truth,  which  lies  within  a  child's  soft  grasp, 
That  is  at  home  amid  the  poor  and  weak, 


346  OLIVE   AND    VIOLET. 

Was  not  yet  found  of  him !    He  did  not  know 

That  he  whose  mind  would  seek  that  highest  truth 

Must  doff  all  earthly  learning,  lay  aside 

The  pride  of  manhood,  bend  the  haughty  brow, 

And,  as  a  child,  with  child-like  trust  receive 

The  gift  GOD  giveth  through  Repentance,  —  Faith ! 

Then  shall  the  man  find  in  his  treasure-house, 

Which  he  had  filled  with  knowledge  and  much  lore, 

A  thousand  things  he  had  not  seen  before. 

All  forms  of  Science,  and  all  realms  of  Thought, 

Shall  have  one  common  Centre,  whereunto 

Their  diverse  streams  shall  flow ;  which,  in  Itself, 

Doth  make  the  crowning  glory  of  them  all ! 

Without  this  Centre,  and  without  this  Crown, 

All  human  learning  is  an  empty  show; 

All  human  theories  are  based  on  sand  ; 

And  human  schemes  arc  void  and  formless  all. 

Tis  not  so  hard  to  win  this  precious  gift ; 
This  "  one  pearl  of  great  price."    A  little  child 
Can  win  and  wear  it ;  and  no  sophist  tongue 
Can  shake  its  perfect  and  undoubting  faith. 
The  child  doth  never  reason.    That  cold  steel, 
So  often  turned  by  Satan  to  foul  use 
Against  itself,  the  child's  brain  cannot  grasp. 
But,  deep  within  its  soul,  an  anchor  strong 
On  which  to  lean,  Faith  hath  so  firm  a  hold, 
That,  but  to  shake  it,  you  must  tear  it  up. 

They  know  not  what  they  do,  who  first  implant 
The  seeds  of  doubt  within  a  child's  pure  heart. 
They  know  not  what  they  do.     As  the  one  hour, 
At  morning  lost  is  found  not  through  the  day, 
Not  then,  nor  ever;  so  this  perfect  faith, 
Once  dimmed  and  darkened,  may  no  more  resume 
Its  early  glory.    Manhood's  later  faith 
Doth  come  through  trials  sore,  temptations  strong; 
Hath  faltered,  failed.     Man's  mind  is  full  of  doubts. 
Now  this,  now  that,  must  all  be  cleared  away, 
Before  he  owns  that  anything  is  truth ; 
Before  his  lips  confess  "  One  Faith,  One  Lord." 
His  reason  —  broken  reed  on  which  he  leans  — 
Doth  lead  him  still  astray.     And  when  at  last, 
Convinced  against  his  will,  he  meekly  bows 
Low  saying,  "  I  believe,"  his  faith  is  not, 
As  is  the  child's,  a  pure,  unquestioning  faith ; 
Is  not,  and  cannot  be ! 

Beware,  light  hearts ! 


OLIVE   AND    VIOLET.  347 

Lest  in  your  careless  speech,  unthinking  mirth, 
Ye  brush  the  bloom  from  oft*  a  child's  pure  soul ; 
By  doubt  of  earthly  goodness,  earthly  love, 
Shaping  the  doubt  that  reacheth  up  to  GOD! 
This  early  faith  is  strong  as  any  oak. 
A  very  little  wedge,  in  time,  will  split 
The  tree  from  end  to  end.     So  one  light  word, 
Forgotten  by  the  speaker,  may  strike  deep 
At  the  root  of  faith,  till  all  its  glory  lie 
Cast  down  to  earth,  like  some  old  forest  tree 
All  rotten  at  its  heart.     And  this  the  work  — 
The  bitter  work  whose  deadly  fruit  is  death  — 
Of  one  poor  thoughtless  word ! 

Who  doubts,  should  be 
Stern  warder  of  himself,  keep  closest  guard 
About  the  open  portal  of  his  lips, 
Lest  aught  of  that  his  fatal  treasure  scape 
To  darken  other  souls.     Who  values  doubt, 
Let  him  be  jealous  of  it ;  keep  it  safe 
From  eyes  of  other  men,  so  that  their  hands 
May  not  reach  out  and  pluck  the  fatal  fruit 
To  the  losing  of  their  souls. 


Amid  the  ruin  and  the  poisonous  slime 
That  festered  slowly  at  the  city's  heart, 
Some  loving  human  souls  had  built  a  school, 
And  then  a  chapel.     Free  it  was  to  all ; 
None  were  shut  out;  but  chiefly  children  came. 
The  little  ones,  brought  here  by  kindly  words,  — 
By  tender  care  they  found  not  in  their  homes,  — 
Soon  learnt  more  fitting  use  of  their  quick  tongues 
Than  foul  words,  fouler  oaths.     Rough  hair,  unkempt, 
Did  learn  a  smoother  wave ;  and  grimy  hands, 
That  little  knew  of  water,  soon  grew  white ; 
And  garments,  foul  with  all  uncleanness,  were 
Made  clean  and  neat.     These  seem  but  little  things ; 
And  five  long  years  had  passed  in  doing  this, 
Yet  were  not  counted  lost.    Those  who  worked  here, 
Had  in  the  morning  sown  the  precious  seed; 
When  evening  came,  would  not  withhold  the  hand ; 
And  knew  that,  though  they  might  wait  many  years, 
Yet,  in  the  end,  they  should  come  home  with  joy, 
Bringing  with  them  the  harvest's  golden  sheaves! 
Faithful  is  He  that  promised. 

One  bright  day, 

In  early  summer  little  Olive  came, 
The  old  man  at  her  side,  unto  this  place, 


348  OLIVE   AND    VIOLET. 

With  simple  childish  speech :  "  I  come  to  school." 
They  made  her  welcome ;  gave  a  quiet  seat 
Where  still  the  old  man  might  sit  next  to  her, 
If  so  he  willed  to  stay.     He  rarely  stayed ; 
His  work  was  otherwhere ;  but  Olive  kept 
The  corner-seat  for  him,  and  when  he  came, 
As  sometimes  he  would  do,  to  see  her  home, 
She  made  him  take  his  place,  and  stay  to  hear 
The  children  singing,  —  singing  some  old  hymns 
That  told  of  Christmas  and  of  Easter  Day ; 
Of  bitter  Cross  and  Death,  and  how  the  Lord 
Did  alway  love  the  children ! 

The  old  house 

Grew  strangely  musical.    Bird-like,  the  child 
Went  singing  everywhere  the  sweet  old  hymns 
The  Church  hath  gathered  in  her  Book  of  Prayer. 
Strange  sounds  were  these  through  those  old  rooms  to  ring! 
They  made  the  air  grow  purer;  gave  a  tone 
That  made  all  other  sounds  seem  healthier; 
And  had  strong  glamour  from  the  long-dead  Past 
To  throw  upon  the  shapes  that  knew  not  now 
What  shape  their  Past  did  wear.     Their  sin  had  laid 
All  olden  memories  in  a  grave  more  deep 
Than  that  we  give  the  dust.     Their  lives  had  raised 
So  strong  a  barrier  'twixt  them  and  Hope, 
That  it  was  all  shut  out ;  and  for  their  Faith, 
It  died  in  childhood ;  had  not  seen  since  then 
The  sweet  light  of  the  day.     Yet  unto  these  — 
These  souls  forlorn  and  lost  —  the  child's  song  came, 
As  some  stray  ray  of  light  that  doth  stream  in, 
From  viewless  cranny,  on  a  dungeon  dark. 
It  comes  —  it  goes ;  but  leaves  its  record  there 
As  something  looked  for,  hoped  for  evermore  ! 
They  scarcely  knew  how  it  had  come  to  pass ; 
But  Sin  was  growing  hideous,  foul,  unclean, 
And  strong  frames  trembled,  as  the  child's  voice  sang 
Of  cruel  scourging,  and  of  Calvary, 
Of  Cross  and  Crown;  or  rang  out,  clear  and  high, 
Some  grand  old  hymn  would  stir  the  coolest  pulse : 
It  may  be  that  which  Martin  Luther  wrote 
(" Ein  feste  Burg"),or,  later  yet,  the  song 
That  hailed  the  Bridegroom's  coming.     Each  and  all 
Had  their  own  spell,  when  Olive  sang  them  there; 
Each  their  own  work  to  do.     But  slow  the  work, 
As  though  one  gathered  sand  upon  the  shore, 
And  gathered  grain  by  grain ! 

Easy  the  road, 
And  smooth  and  swift,  the  long  descent  to  hell. 


OLIVE    AND    VIOLET.  349 

But  they  who  would  retrace  their  downward  steps, 

Have  heavy  labor,  fearful  work  to  do.* 

Sin  will  not  let  her  chosen  votaries  go. 

Their  vows  are  hers.     Their  bodies  and  their  souls 

She  holdeth  in  stern  bondage,  with  such  chains 

That  all  the  senses  seem  close  bound  to  her. 

She  eateth,  like  a  canker,  in  the  flesh, 

And  makes  that  foul,  which  was  most  fair  and  sweet. 

Her  touch,  defacing,  blots  all  beauty  out; 

Yet  she  can  make  things  hideous,  beautiful ; 

That  bright,  which  is  most  dark ;  and  Death  seem  Life ! 

She  hath  a  cup,  wherein  the  wine  is  red,  — 

The  grapes  were  poison,  and  the  vintage  hell. 

But  whoso  drinks  hath  fever  in  his  blood, 

And  thirst  insatiable.    No  stream  can  quench 

The  lire  it  doth  kindle,  till  the  flame 

Hath  burnt  to  ashes  in  the  crucible 

That  is  "  repentance  "  called.     This  wine  so  red 

Doth  stain  as  scarlet,  and  no  human  hand 

Can  wash  the  staining  out.     No  Circe  cup 

Did  ever  make  such  monstrous  shapes  as  this ; 

Yet  thousands  take  it  daily ;  drain  it  deep  ; 

Ay !  to  the  dregs !     And  then  they  long  for  more. 

They  have  not  far  to  seek.     It  ready  stands,  — 

Close  to  their  very  lips ;  they  need  not  stoop ; 

Sin  holds  it  up.     She  hath  a  royal  robe,  — 

A  robe  to  deck  her  faithful  slaves  withal. 

'Tis  fair  enough,  and  fltteth  each  full  well ; 

But,  would  they  fling  it  off,  it  hath  become 

A  portion  of  themselves,  part  of  their  flesh; 

A  thing  they  cannot  at  their  present  will 

Put  off,  or  on  ;  hut  clinging  unto  them 

Through  life,  through  death ;  unless  One  strong  to  save 

Shall  tear  it  off,  and  nail  it  to  his  cross ; 

Then  pour  in  wine  and  oil  to  heal  the  wound, 

And  send  the  broken  spirit  on  its  way 

Unto  a  better  country.     Nothing  less 

Than  He  who  suffered  on  the  atoning  Cross 

Can  break  the  yoke  of  sin,  and  free  the  soul. 

Behold !    He  standeth  at  the  door,  and  knocks. 

Arise,  and  let  him  in ! 

VI. 

With  what  quaint  earnestness  a  child  begins 
To  study  its  first  lesson  !    Mark  the  brow 

*  —  "  Faeilis  descensus 
Avernuni.     Sed  revocare  gradutn 
Hie  labor,  hoc  opus  est." 


350  OLIVE   AND    VIOLET. 

That  doth  put  on  such  wrinkles  and  such  frowns, 

As  better  fit  a  man  who  poreth  o'er 

Some  problem  hard  to  solve,  or  knotty  point 

That  much  disturbs  his  brain ;  but  for  a  child 

Not  yet  such  lines  should  be.     Thought  traceth  them, 

With  stencil  sharp,  on  older,  graver  brows, 

And  many  years  make  deeper  still  the  lines. 

But  this  smooth  brow  is  an  unwritten  page, 

A  fair,  blank  book  that  hath  no  lines  as  yet; 

Though  every  day  may  leave  some  shadowing 

The  after-time  shall  fill  up,  clear  and  true. 

Perchance  these  mimic  wrinkles  and  these  frowns, 

So  out  of  place  upon  the  child's  white  brow, 

Are  only  heralds  of  what  shall  be  soon ; 

Are  only  types  that  shadow  forth  the  man 

When  life  is  at  flood- tide. 

The  sun  was  up 

Above  the  summit  of  the  eastern  hills. 
Long  shadows  from  the  trees  lay  on  the  ground ; 
Shadows  that  stole  away  with  silent  feet 
Before  the  rising  of  the  summer  sun. 
They  did  not  like  the  sunlight  overmuch ; 
Nay,  not  at  all;  and  ever  fled  from  it 
Unto  some  favored  and  secluded  spot 
Where  leaves  were  thickest,  and  where  Dusk  was  queen 
Of  inner  woodland  and  remotest  dells. 
Full  in  the  sunlight,  no  dusk  shadows  there, 
A  fairy  palace  wooed  the  morning  breeze. 
A  palace  made  for  summer,  —  cool,  and  white 
As  marble's  self  could  make  It.     On  the  porch, 
Just  in  the  sunshine,  sat  a  little  girl ; 
A  book  upon  her  knee.     Close  at  her  feet, 
A  royal  dog,  of  good  St.  Bernard's  breed, 
Was  idly  lying,  watching  the  sweet  face. 
It  may  be,  wondering  in  his  head  canine 
What  phase  of  mood  the  sunny  brow  put  on 
With  all  those  frowns  and  wrinkles.     Far  away, 
A  lake's  clear  waters  glimmered  in  the  sun. 

A  little  boat  was  moored  beside  the  shore, 
Slow  moving  up  and  down  before  the  wind 
That  blew  so  freshly  from  the  western  hills. 
A  man  sat  in  the  stern,  dipping  his  hand 
In  the  cool  water,  as  in  idleness, 
But  watching,  all  the  while,  the  little  girl ; 
Who,  on  her  book  intent,  had  never  heard 
Her  father  call  to  her.    Eager,  at  last, 
To  know  what  meant  this  unaccustomed  mood, 


OLIVE   AND    VIOLET.  351 

He  raised  an  oar,  and  splashing  let  it  fall. 

The  spell  was  broken,  —  book  was  flung  aside ; 

And  dog  and  Violet  came  running  down 

The  green  slope  to  the  lake.     She  won  the  race; 

Was  lifted  o'er  the  gunwale  in  the  boat, 

And  in  her  own  especial  corner  placed. 

The  dog  sedately  took  the  other  side 

As  one  was  used  to  keep  the  boat  in  trim. 

With  such  grave  nicety  did  he  balance  it, 

That  you  might  know,  the  dog,  by  strong  instinct, 

Was  something  of  a  sailor.     Violet 

Sat  strangely  silent  for  a  little  space, 

While  from  the  shore  the  boat  was  drifting  fast, 

Then  softly  and  mysteriously  spoke  : 

"  Do  you  think,  papa,  that  I  can  ever  learn 

To  read  a  book?    I  —  do  —  not  —  think  —  I  —  can." 

And  thereupon  the  little  face  grew  sad. 

No  answer  then ;  for,  even  as  she  spoke, 
Her  father  laid  within  her  tiny  hand 
A  water-lily ;  first  of  all  its  tribe 
To  greet  the  summer,  with  its  petals  white ; 
The  wind,  with  breathings  of  its  perfumed  breath. 
She  held  it  up,  and  looked  it  o'er  and  o'er, 
Eying  it  curiously.     "  Janet  says 
These  water-lilies  rise  from  out  the  lake 
As  in  GOD'S  time  our  bodies  from  the  grave. 
She  says  they  spring  from  out  the  muci  that  lies 
Below  the  pure,  sweet  water;  that  the  lake 
Is  their  baptismal  font.     This  long,  soft  thread, 
Which  bears  the  lily  upward  through  the  wave. 
She  said  was  like  GOD'S  love,  that  leadeth  us 
Through  all  the  ways  of  life.     And  when,  at  last, 
Wide-open,  sweet,  the  flower  greets  the  sun, 
She  said  it  was  like  heaven  to  the  soul 
Which  GOD  had  taken  home  to  be  with  him." 

So  spake  Violet,  half  in  undertone, 
As  one  repeateth  o'er  a  lesson  learnt, 
And  yet  her  father  did  hear  every  word ; 
And  somewhat  he  did  wonder  how  the  child 
So  well  remembered  all  that  Janet  said. 
He  had  forgotten  that  there  never  was 
A  teacher  like  to  Love ! 

The  child  talked  on : 
"  Papa,  if  you  and  I  should  die  to-day, 
We  would  be  like  this  flower,  and  rise,  some  time, 
From  out  the  dust ;  I,  as  a  little  child, 


352  OLIVE    /INT)    VIOLET. 

And  you,  a  grown-up  man.     So  Janet  says. 

I  hope  she  will  die  too.     I  would  not  like 
To  leave  her  here  alone." 

For  sole  reply 

The  father  gathered  lilies,  one  by  one, 
And  laid  them  on  her  lap.     Then  with  light  touch 
He  brought  the  little  boat  back  to  the  shore ; 
And,  bearing  lilies  in  her  tiny  hands, 
Violet  went  up  the  green  slope  to  her  home. 

If  grains  of  wheat,  that  for  two  thousand  years 
In  Egypt's  sepulchres  have  buried  been, 
Retain  their  little  modicum  of  life ; 
And,  given  to  the  bosom  of  the  earth, 
Spring  up  again,  blade,  ear,  and  perfect  grain; 
Seems  it  so  hard  to  thee,  O  doubting  man, 
That  this  poor  dust  of  ours  shall  rise  again ; 

II  This  mortal  put  on  immortality  "? 

The  Hand  that  made  the  grain,  and  out  of  dust 

Did  form  the  creature,  man,  is  strong  in  might ; 

It  keeps  the  life  within  a  buried  seed 

Through  two  long  cycles  of  a  thousand  years ; 

And  will  not  fail  to  gather  up  our  dust, 

Particle  to  particle,  in  the  day 

When  the  Lord  shall  come  in  the  clouds  of  heaven, 

And  the  dust  shall  meet  its  Maker,  face  to  face, 

No  veil  of  earth  between !     Of  old,  Job  said, 

"  Though  after  my  skin  worms  destroy  this  body, 

Yet  in  my  flesh  shall  I  see  GOD  ;  whom  I 

Shall  see  for  myself,  and  mine  eyes  shall  behold, 

And  not  another !  "    And  JESUS  said,  "  He 

That  believeth  on  me,  though  he  were  dead, 

Yet  shall  he  live !  "    What  needeth  more  than  this  ? 

"  The  one  thing  needful."    The  untarnished  Faith, 

The  simple  trust  of  childhood,  the  one  Creed 

Whereon  no  doubt  hath  fallen ! 

If,  beyond 

The  Silent  Valley,  there  were  nothingness,  — 
No  hope,  no  future,  verily,  "  we  are 
Of  all  men  most  miserable."    But  the  Lord 
In  whom  we  trust  hath  never  arm  of  flesh ; 
And  we  may  rest,  securely,  on  the  Love 
That  wrought  out  our  redemption  by  the  Cross 
And  the  first  Easter-Day.    His  arm  did  bring 
Salvation  to  his  people ! 


OLIVE   AND    VIOLET.  353 


VII. 

There  was  a  shadow  darkly  brooding  o'er 
The  old  house  in  the  alley.     Olive  lay 
Upon  a  bed  of  sickness.     Her  young  life 
Seemed  slowly  passing,  as  a  dream,  away, 
And  all  the  house  was  eloquent  of  grief. 
These  men,  these  women,  dared  not  leave  the  place, 
Lest  when  they  did  return,  'twould  be  to  find 
Their  sunshine  buried  in  the  night  of  Death. 
Sorely  they  missed  the  child,  whose  little  feet 
Did  come  no  more  to  meet  them ;  whose  sweet  voice, 
That  ever  had  made  music  in  the  house, 
Was  hushed  from  very  weakness.     Faint  and  low 
Her  breath  came  softly,  as  she  seemed  to  sleep 
A  sleep  that  was  exhaustion.     There  had  been 
Hot  fever  burning  in  the  little  veins, 

Flushed  cheeks  and  glittering* eyes.     This  had  all  passed, 
And  left  the  child  in  a  strange  stupor  sunk, 
With  close-shut  eyelids,  whose  faint  quivering 
Just  showed  that  Death  had  not  yet  set  his  seal 
On  the  blue  eyes  beneath. 

The  sailor  watched 

Beside  her,  night  and  day.     Watching,  as  they 
Who,  wrecked  at  sea,  do  see  the  passing  ship 
They  hoped  would  save  them,  slowly  drifting  past; 
As  slowly,  sinking  'ueath  the  horizon. 
The  old  man's  life  seemed  bound  up  in  the  child's. 
And,  if  she  died,  it  needed  no  keen  eye 
To  know  he  would  not  linger  long  behind. 
He  never  seemed  to  weary.     All  the  day 
Was  spent  beside  her,  and  the  long,  long  night 
Did  never  find  him  absent.     At  the  last, 
When  hope  seemed  dying,  and  o'er  all  the  house 
The  solemn  stillness  of  a  coming  fate 
Was  sadly  falling,  he  rose  up  in  haste, 
And  blindly  staggering,  went  forth  on  the  street 
That  mocked  him  with  its  wealth  of  human  life. 

He  stayed  not  long ;  but  came  not  back  alone. 
A  young  man  quietly  did  follow  him 
Into  the  silence  of  the  chamber  old 
Where  Olive  lay  a-dying.     On  her  pulse 
The  young  man  laid  his  finger.     Faint  the  throb 
That  answered  to  his  touch;  but  it  sufficed 
To  give  a  hope  of  life ;  and  he  knelt  down 
Amid  those  men,  those  women,  as  if  he 
Saw  nothing  of  the  stains  that  dark  and  deep 
23 


354  OLIVE   AND    ttOLET. 

Were  burning  out  their  souls,  as  if  no  taint, 
All  foul  and  leprous  in  their  blood,  could  bring 
Defilement  unto  him. 

As  with  one  heart 

All  bowed  the  head,  or  knelt ;  and,  as  he  prayed 
That  GOD  would  spare  the  child,  and  save  from  pain, 
And  grant  her  length  of  days,  days  to  be  spent 
In  doing  good,  and  serving  GOD  alway ; 
Or  else,  that  he  would  graciously  receive 
The  little  one,  and  take  her  to  himself 
To  be  for  evermore  with  Christ  in  Heaven;  * 
A  shuddering  sense  of  all  that  they  had  lost 
Stole  o'er  these  sinful  souls  ;  as  unto  men, 
When  drowning,  comes  the  record  of  their  lives, 
No  one  thing  blotted  out  I 

A  moment's  pause, 

And  the  clear  voice  went  on.  —  "  O  GOD,  whose  days 
Are  never-ending,  and  whose  mercies  are 
Untold  and  numberless,  make  us  to  know 
How  very  brief  is  this  our  human  life, 
And  how  uncertain  all ;  and  let  thy  grace 
And  Holy  Spirit  lead  us  through  this  vale, 
In  holiness,  righteousness,  all  the  days 
That  thou  hast  given  us ;  that  when  we  all 
Have,  in  our  generation,  served  thee, 
We  may  be  gathered  unto  our  fathers ; 
Having  the  testimony,  changeless,  true, 
Of  a  good  conscience ;  in  the  communion 
Of  the  Catholic  Church ;  in  the  sure  trust 
Of  a  certain  faith;  in  the  comfort  sweet 
Of  a  most  holy  and  religious  hope ! 
In  favor  with  thee  our  GOD,  and  at  peace 
With  all  the  world.     And  this  we  ask 
Through  Jesus  Christ  our  Lord."  f 

None  said  Amen ; 

And  yet  that  prayer  came  home  to  every  heart 
With  such  deep  sense  of  all  unworthiness ; 
"  It  was  not  meant  —  could  not  be  said —  for  them." 
No  testimony  did  their  conscience  bear 
That  could  be  called  good ;  they  had  no  part 
In  the  Church  Catholic ;  no  certain  faith 
Had  they  to  trust  in ;  and  no  holy  hope 
To  comfort  their  poor  souls.     And  well  they  knew 
They  could  not  be  in  favor  with  their  GOD, 
And  they  were  not  in  charity  with  men. 


*  Paraphrase  of  part  of  the  "  Prayer  for  a  Sick  Child." 
Paraphrase  of  a  prayer  in  "  The  Order  for  the  Visitation  of  the  Sick.' 


OLIVE   AND    VIOLET.  355 

What  was  that  prayer  to  them  ?    As  a  boat,  sent 
For  men  close  clinging  to  a  broken  wreck 
O'er  which  the  angry  billows  foam  and  sweep ; 
As  the  first  draught  of  water  to  the  lips 
Of  one  who  pineth  'mid  the  desert  sands 
For  the  life-saving  stream. 

The  little  one,  — 

Who  came  unto  these  sin-polluted  souls, 
As  did  the  angel  to  Bethesda's  pool, 
Stirring  the  stagnant  waters  unto  life,  — 
Had  wrought  a  work  that  could  not  be  undone ; 
Made  ready  these  foul  places  for  the  feet 
Of  one  who  brought  "glad  tidings  "  unto  them. 
Her  little  hands  by  tender  clasp  had  taught 
Forgotten  softness  to  these  hardened  hearts ; 
And  opened  sealed  doors.     Her  clear,  sweet  voice 
Had  stirred  some  pulses  that  had  long  been  dead ; 
And  a  strange  reverence  for  holy  names 
Came  to  these  men  and  women  sin-defiled. 
They  seemed  so  pure  and  holy  on  the  lips 
Of  little  Olive.     All  unconsciously 
The  child  had  done  her  work;  yet  none  the  less 
Was  it  her  work.     And  now  the  little  waif 
That  came,  an  angel,  to  the  old,  old  house, 
Was  going  home. 

The  young  physician's  face 

Told  better  than  all  words  :    "  There  is  no  hope." 
He  did  but  pause  to  question  "  if  the  child 
Had  been  baptized  or  no ;  "  and  then  he  stayed 
To  hear  the  story  they  did  tell  to  him ; 
And  when  he  went,  he  spake  of  swift  return. 

A  long,  long  hour  passed.     Death,  hovering,  came 
Yet  nearer  to  the  child,  but  still  delayed 
To  claim  her  as  his  own.     Then  back  in  haste 
The  good  physician  sped,  and  with  him  brought 
A  laborer  in  GOD'S  vineyard,  —  a  young  priest,  — 
That  so  the  child,  ere  she  went  home,  should  be 
Named  with  the  name  of  Christ.     Brief  was  the  rite, 
And  brief  the  time  allowed ;  for,  as  the  priest 
Did  sprinkle  water  on  the  little  brow, 
The  blue  eyes  opened  once,  the  white  lips  smiled, 
A  hand  was  lifted  from  the  tiny  wrist ; 
And  soft  and  clear  —  all  solemnly  and  slow  — 
Came  the  voice  of  the  young  priest :    "  The  Lord  gave 
And  the  Lord  hath  taken  away.    Blessed  be 
The  name  of  the  Lord !  " 


356  OLIVE   AND    VIOLET. 

Olive's  work  was  done. 
And  yet,  not  so.     As  year  following  year 
Did  bear  some  inmate  of  that  house  away 
On  that  long  journey  whence  is  no  return, 
They  went,  as  those  who,  reconciled  to  GOD, 
Have  lost  all  fear;  who,  at  the  feet  of  Christ, 
Have  laid  that  burthen  of  a  sinful  life 
They  take  not  up  again. 

And  far  away  — 

Beyond  the  city's  din  —  beyond  the  strife 
Of  toil  and  traffic  —  they  alt  silent  sleep, 
'Mid  quiet  valleys  and  on  sloping  hills ; 
Where  earthly  sounds  are  heard  not ;  and  the  dead 
Have  their  last  resting-place,  alone  with  GOD  ! 

vm. 

How  joyously  the  Summer  doth  put  on 
Her  robe  of  beauty  and  her  crown  of  flowers. 
With  what  a  royal  step  she  treads  the  earth ; 
The  earth,  that  yields  her  fitting  reverence ! 
We  saw  her  once,  enthroned  upon  the  hills  ; 
Queenly  and  glorious  in  her  golden  prime. 
Sunlight  was  burning  in  her 'tresses  fair; 
And  full  and  passionate  were  lips  and  eyes. 
Low  at  her  feet  were  flowers,  bearded  wheat, 
And  store  of  fruits,  —  red,  golden,  purple,  white. 
Above  her  head,  a  sky  of  darkest  blue, 
Wherein  did  float  some  light und  fleecy  clouds; 
While  far  away,  o'er  distant  meadows  fell 
The  raindrops  thick  and  fast ;  and  lightning  flash 
And  loud  reverberating  thunder-peal 
Told  of  the  passing  storm.     Against  the  clouds, 
The  many-colored  Iris  shaped  its  bow,  — 
Seal  opaline  of  GOD'S  first  covenant. 

A  morning  —  noon  —  had  quickly  come  and  gone. 
The  sun  was  drooping  to  the  western  hills ; 
And  on  the  lake  the  shadows  lengthened  fast, 
But  trenched  not  on  the  lilies  yet.     The  day 
Was  dying  royally.    The  eastern  slopes 
Were  all  aglow  with  light ;  and  shades  of  gold 
Were  streaming  past  a  knoll  of  forest-trees, 
Through  graceful  beech,  and  stately  elm,  upon 
The  marble  palace  by  the  lake's  green  shore. 
A  world  of  sweetness  floated  in  the  air, 
From  honeysuckle,  rose,  and  eglantine. 
A  sense  of  pleasure  and  rare  harmony 
Did  fill  the  rich  man's  soul,  as  silently 


OLIVE   AXD    VIOLET.  357 

He  waited  for  the  dying-  of  the  day. 
But  —  where  was  Violet? 

As  in  reply, 

A  dog's  low  howl  rose  sudden  from  the  lake. 
What  needeth  more  ?    The  father's  prescient  heart 
Did  cease  its  beating  for  a  little  space ; 
And  then  —  the  eager  rush,  the  flying  feet, 
That  only  brought  more  near  the  fatal  truth. 

She  lay  upon  the  shore  :  the  long,  brown  curls, 
All  tangled  with  the  water-lil}'  leaves, 
As  from  the  lake  the  dog  had  drawn  her  out ; 
His  strength  had  failed  him  then.     Within  her  hand 
Was  clasped  a  half-closed  flower,  that  all  too  well 
Did  tell  its  tale,  of  how  the  child  had  bent 
Above  the  water  just  to  grasp  the  stem; 
And  then,  the  little  soul  —  one  moment  here, 
And  in  the  next,  beyond  the  earth  —  the  stars  — 
Beyond  illimitable  space ! 

No  more  —  no  more  —  shall  those  soft  clasping  fingers 
Lead  the  poor  father  on  the  way  to  home  ; 

But  on  his  hand  their  gentle  touch  still  lingers ; 
And  it  shall  linger  through  the  years  to  come. 

No  more  —  no  more  —  that  little  form  shall  meet  him, 
Crossing  the  lawn  with  light  and  bounding  feet. 

No  more  the  brown  and  shining  eyes  shall  greet  him, 
With  tender  love,  all  passionate  and  sweet. 

No  more  —  no  more !     O  death  to  sweet  hope  ever ! 

O  passionate  wail  that  will  not  be  repressed ! 
That  hast  no  answer  but  that  sad  word  "never," 

Unto  our  mournful  and  beseeching  quest. 

No  more  —  no  more  —  and  yet  the  lips  seem  speaking, 
As  in  that  day  when  he  first  heard  his  child. 

So  the  poor  father  prayeth,  humbly  seeking 
If  yet  with  GOD  he  may  be  reconciled. 

No  more  —  no  more  —  will  there  be  earthly  greeting ; 

Bridgeless  the  gulf  that  aye  between  doth  lie ; 
But,  in  the  world  beyond,  there  may  be  meeting 

Or  parting,  lasting  as  eternity ! 


358  LILIUS. 


a  Uision  of  t&e 

METHOUGHT  we  drove, 
O'er  snowy  roads,  unto  a  quiet  lake, 
Low  nestling  in  the  bosom  of  gray  hills, 
That,  when  we  reached,  were  green  with  vernal  grass, 
And  flush  with  summer  beauty.     Calm  and  clear 
The  \vaters  glittered  in  the  noontide  sun ; 
And,  here  and  there,  a  water-lily  showed 
The  snowy  petals  that  the  breezes  kissed, 
Stealing  their  fragrance.     All  the  lake  was  shaped 
Most  like  a  lunar  bow.     The  inner  curve 
Did  woo  us  with  its  beauty  of  fair  trees 
And  soft  green  turf.     We  wandered  slowly  on, 
Until  we  came  where  granite  rocks  did  rear 
A  barrier  to  our  steps.     All  huge  the  pile, 
And  fashioned  to  the  semblance  of  a  church, 
With  chancel  open  to  the  winds  of  heaven. 
We  stood  before  that  altar,  you  and  I,  — 
My  head  just  leaning  on  your  breast,  the  while, 
For  I  was  strangely  weary,  — and  we  talked, 
Or,  rather,  I  did  listen,  as  you  talked 
Of  that  strange  pile ;  and  much  we  wondered  both, 
If  only  Nature  were  the  architect. 
Those  rocks  did  bear  no  trace  of  human  hand ; 
No  mortal  chisel  shaped  those  blocks  of  stone. 
So  huge  were  they,  not  e'en  the  men  of  old, 
The  giants  of  those  days,  could  change  their  place, 
Though  but  a  hair's-breadth.     And  it  stood  there, 
A  mighty  church  of  stone;  untouched  by  Time; 
And  grand  and  solitary.     Slowly  down, 
Around  us  and  about  us,  fell  the  dusk ; 
And  we  stood  silent,  watching  that  old  fane, 
Until  the  morning  woke  me  from  my  dream. 


Hillie, 

SHE  sitteth  alone,  and  she  sigheth, 

And  her  wan  lips  tremble  so ; 
And  the  heart  of  the  maiden  it  dieth 

For  a  hope  that  is  lying  low. 
The  years  of  life's  spring-time  she  numbereth, 

But  their  beauty  and  glory  are  gone ; 
And  she  thinks  that  the  earth  she  but  cumbereth, 

As  she  sitteth  and  sigheth  alone. 


L1LL1B.  359 

She  sitteth  alone,  and  she  weepeth, 

And  lier  tears  fall  wearily, 
As  she  remembereth  one  who  sleepeth 

Where  the  dust  and  silence  be. 
See  the  breaking  heart,  how  it  throbbeth, 

With  a  faint  pulse,  to  and  fro ; 
And  the  poor,  weak  breath,  how  it  sobbeth 

O'er  the  way  that  lone  life  must  go. 

She  kneeleth  alone,  and  she  prayeth, 

And  the  dear  GOD  heareth  her  prayer; 
And  the  faltering  words  she  sayeth 

Will  not  all  be  lost  in  air. 
She  riseth  from  prayer,  and  she  goeth 

Where'er  there  is  work  to  do ; 
And  she  walketh  alone,  but  she  knoweth 

Whither  her  footsteps  go. 

She  sitteth  alone,  but  not  often, 

And  her  brow  is  serene,  though  pale ; 
And  her  mission  is  grief  to  soften, 

And  her  coming  stilleth  the  wail. 
Soft  in  her  soul  sorrow  sleepeth, 

And  she  pitieth  all  who  mourn ; 
While  her  heart  its  lone  vigil  keepeth 

For  him  who  may  never  return. 

She  sitteth  alone,  and  she  thinketh 

How  softly  the  waters  go 
That  bear  her  away,  while  she  shrinketh 

No  more  from  their  icy  flow. 
For  she  watcheth  the  river  flowing 

With  a  swill  tide  far  away; 
And  she  knoweth  whither  'tis  going, 

And  she  looketh  beyond  to  the  day. 

To  the  day,  that  e'en  now  is  dawning 

On  the  hill-tops,  far  and  blue ; 
To  the  clear  and  cloudless  morning, 

That  knoweth  no  earthly  dew ! 
She  beareth  a  loving  spirit 

To  that  home  beyond  the  sky, 
For  she  is  of  those  who  inherit 

GOD'S  immortality. 


360  TO  S.    P.  H. 


tta  *.  p.  ft. 

So  thou  wouldst  be  a  poet.     Verily, 
The  moth  doth  seek  the  flame  that  is  its  death, 
And  will  not  be  withheld.     The  sailor-boy 
Leaves  the  green  fields  and  pleasant  haunts  of  home 
With  scarce  a  tear;  since  dearer  to  his  heart 
The  fearful  splendor  of  a  storm-swept  sea, 
And  moan  of  waves  that  never  are  at  rest. 
And  yet,  long  ere  that  trumpet-music  dies 
Into  brief  silence,  or  that  moan  be  hushed, 
The  sailor-boy  shall  find  a  quiet  grave 
Beneath  the  ocean  that  he  loves  so  well ! 
In  days  of  old,  long  centuries  ago, 
When  from  the  crucible  men  sought  to  win 
The  yellow  dross  called  gold,  a  student  pale 
Bent,  day  by  day,  and  through  the  silent  night, 
Above  the  living  flame,  and  fed  its  life 
With  fuel  from  his  own,  and  so  grew  old 
Before  his  time.     He  had  a  pleasant  home, 
For  all  fair  things  did  wait  on  him.     Soft  hands, 
That  sought  to  smooth  his  pathway,  loving  eyes 
That  rested  on  him  ever,  and  one  heart 
That  gave  to  him  its  all,  and  was  content. 
He  left  all  this  with  never  one  regret, 
And  in  the  fiery  crucible  did  pour 
His  years  of  youth ;  and,  for  this  lavished  wealth, 
What  did  the  flame  give  back?    Apples  of  Sodom, 
Golden-hued  without,  bitter  dust  within. 
One  eve,  a  friend,  not  yet  estranged,  stole  soft 
Unto  the  turret-chamber ;  in  her  hand 
A  few  pale  flowers  from  his  mother's  grave ; 
That  with  these  mournful  tokens  she  might  win 
His  heart  to  earth  again.     Her  feet  fell  light 
Upon  the  paved  floor,  but  woke  an  echo, 
And  yet  he  never  stirred !     The  setting  sun 
Shed  o'er  his  palest  brow  its  golden  light, 
And  from  the  idle  crucible  caught  up 
A  gleam  of  gold.     The  treasure  sought  so  long 
Was  found  at  last ;  but  the  fire  had  gone  out 
Alike  in  crucible  and  human  heart ! 

And  thou  wouldst  be  a  poet !     Ask  the  Past 
What  record  it  doth  keep  of  gifted  ones 
Who  in  all  time  have  walked  upon  the  earth, 
Yet  were  not  of  it.     Ask  it  how  they  lived; 


TO  s.  P.  n.  361 

Those  souls  of  fire  that  sometime  trod  the  dust, 

And  made  the  world  rich  with  their  hearts'  best  blood? 

They  dwelt  among  us,  living-  their  full  life 

Ere  meaner  clay  had  touched  maturity. 

They  suffered,  not  as  common  natures  do,  — 

For  every  nerve  was  strung  to  agony; 

And  loving,  they  made  their  love  immortal! 

They  passed  away,  like  all  things  loveliest, 

Leaving  the  world  so  costly  legacies 

It  knows  not  half  their  worth;  and  knows  still  less 

What  price  was  given  for  them.     It  is  well, 

This  dearth  of  knowledge.     Did  the  cold  world  know 

How  every  child  of  Genius  lived  and  died; 

Could  it  but  read  the  story  of  their  lives, 

And  count  the  quivering  pulses,  and  the  drops 

Forced  from  the  bleeding  heart,  as  'twere  to  be 

The  ink  wherein  to  dip  inspired  pens ; 

And  feel,  the  while,  that  every  burning  word 

Was  so  much  life,  wrung  from  the  poet's  heart, 

And  given,  broadcast,  to  the  restless  winds 

That  bear  it  where  they  will,  —  knew  the  world  this, 

Not  one  of  all  its  children  would  resign 

The  calm  content  of  home  and  happiness, 

To  win  the  empty  mockery  of  a  name, 

For  the  world  to  gaze  at  wouderingly, 

When  that  which  made  it  is  a  thing  of  dust ! 

Yet  thou  wouldst  be  a  poet !     HOMER,  blind, 
And  old,  and  homeless ;  TASSO,  with  his  fate 
To  love  above  his  station,  and  to  waste 
Life's  chiefest  years  within  a  prison  cell, 
And  after  death  to  win  the  crown  which  life 
Gave  never  to  his  keeping ;  MILTON,  sad, 
Yet  fair  to  look  upon ;  with  sealed  eyes, 
Portraying  love  so  well,  himself  unloved; 
SAVAGE,  disowned,  and  worse  than  motherless ; 
Pillowing  his  head  upon  the  flinty  stones 
Of  pitiless  London  streets  ;  and  he,  the  boy 
Who  "  perished  in  his  pride,"  pale  CHATTERTON. 
POPE,  mis-shapen,  and  loving  but  too  well 
(Until  his  love  to  bitter  hatred  turned) 
The  woman  fair  who  mocked  him  evermore; 
"  CHILDE  HAROLD,"  with  the  curse  upon  his  brow 
Of  "homeless  and  unresting;"  perishing 
Of  some  wan  sickness,  not  stricken  by  the  foe, 
'Neath  Missolonghi's  walls.     KEATS,  dying  young, 
And  leaving  on  his  tomb  "  Here  lieth  one 
Whose  name  was  writ  in  water;  "  yet  he  wrote 


362  "  FOR    THAT  SHE   SLEEPETH." 

"A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever!  " 

COLERIDGE,  who  lost  himself  with  opium, 

And  left  but  shadows  of  his  soul  to  earth, — 

Shadows,  but  gloriously  beautiful ! 

Are  these  the  names  whereto  thou'dst  link  thine  own, 

And  all  to  be  a  poet? 

Methinks  the  fate 

Of  all  these  gifted  ones  might  well  deter 
A  bolder  soul  than  thine,  from  pressing  on 
The  race  that  they  have  run,  —  the  weary  race, 
Wherein  the  fevered  heart,  and  fevered  brain 
Have  wrought  alike  a  labor  unto  death, 
And  rested  —  in  the  grave ! 

Yet,  O  my  friend ! 

If  in  thy  heart  the  sacred  fire  burns, 
I  bid  thee  not  to  quench  it.    Let  it  burn ; 
But  feed  the  flame  with  fuel  not  of  earth. 
GOD  gave  the  gift.     Then  render  unto  him 
That  which  is  his ;  and  let  thine  offering  be, 
Not  as  death  unto  death,  but  life  to  life ; 
And  he  that  reigneth  will  not  cast  thee  off 
When  the  dark  hour  cometh ;  neither  turn 
His  face  away  from  thee.     His  rod  and  staff 
Shall  comfort  thee;  and  through  the  vale  of  death 
Thou  shalt  not  pass  alone.     Thy  GOD  shall  be 
As  a  tower  of  strength  to  thee ! 


"  jlm  tjjat  sfje  &leepetjj." 

AROUND  the  hearth-stones  of  a  thousand  homes 

Poor  human  hearts  are  weeping; 
But  never  sounding  of  wild  sorrow  comes 
Where  I  lie  sleeping. 

Gay  voices  echo  through  the  haunts  of  earth 

True  time  with  gladness  keeping; 
There  cometh  not  one  tone  of  ringing  mirth 
Where  I  lie  sleeping. 

Light  feet  are  tripping  on  the  grassy  sod 

Out  in  the  sunshine  leaping ; 
But  make  no  music  on  the  rounded  clod 
Where  I  lie  sleeping. 

The  waters  sparkle  in  the  noon-day  sun, 
With  restless  wave  on-sweeping; 


ROSES   RED   AND    WHITE.  363 

But  silently  still  the  rivers  run 

Where  I  lie  sleeping. 

Soft  eyes  and  loving,  meet  the  gaze  of  eyes 

That  with  full  joy  are  weeping ; 
But  a  seal  of  darkness  over  them  lies 
Where  I  lie  sleeping. 

Silent  and  cold,  and  very  dark  and  lone, 

With  never  joy  nor  weeping, 
Is  the  last  home  whereto  the  dust  hath  gone, 
Where  I  lie  sleeping. 

No  sounds  of  earth  may  ever  enter  there ; 

]?or  death  the  dust  is  keeping, 
And  love  is  changed  to  a  wan  despair 
Where  I  lie  sleeping. 

Never  clasping  hands,  nor  a  throbbing  heart, 

Its  faithful  vigil  keeping, 
But  are  unclasped,  or  find  no  more  a  part 
Where  I  lie  sleeping. 

Only  the  dust  to  dust  o'er  folded  hands, 

And  death  its  harvest  reaping, 
Lie  side  by  side  beneath  the  silent  sands 
Where  I  lie  sleeping. 

The  ear  is  closed  unto  all  earthly  sounds, 

And  eyes  no  more  are  weeping; 
And  hearts  beat  never  in  the  quiet  bounds 
Where  I  lie  sleeping. 


Eeti  an*  OTjjfte. 

O  LITTLE  one !  thy  questionings  are  sharp. 
Dost  think  that  I  have  never  been  a  child  ? 
Yet  though  that  time  was  buried  long  ago, 
I  can  relive  it  all  to  pleasure  thee. 
This  faded  face  was  smooth  as  is  thine  own, 
And  in  my  mother's  eyes  it  was  most  fair. 
These  braids,  whereon  white  threads  are  lying  thick, 
Were  soft,  and  brown,  and  golden  in  the  sun, 
In  the  far  days  when  my  poor  father's  hand 
On  the  wild  curls  with  tender  pressure  lay. 
These  trembling  hands  —  your  little  fingers  lie 


364  ItOSES   RED   AND    WHITE. 

So  lovingly  within  them  —  were  as  keen 
To  pluck  the  blossoms  growing  in  the  way, 
As  ever  thine  are  now.     And  the  poor  feet, 
That  scarcely  bear  my  weak  and  feeble  frame 
Into  the  sunshine  that  I  love  so  well, 
Were  once  the  lightest  on  the  grassy  lawn, 
And  ever  swift  to  mischief.     Time  hath  laid 
His  heavy  hand  upon  me ;  and  the  years, 
Each  with  its  burden  laden,  came  to  me, 
Taming  my  heart's  wild  throb,  yet  chilling  not 
Its  living  fount  of  love. 

The  year  was  in  its  noon-day, 

All  the  flowers  were  in  bloom; 
But  a  shadow  deep  was  lying 

Over  one  close-curtained  room. 
They  had  denied  me  entrance.  "  Hush,"  they  said, 

"  You  may  not  enter  there,"  — 
And  I  thought  my  mother  sleeping ; 

My  own  mother,  young  and  fair. 

Out  into  the  garden  alleys 

With  a  light,  free  step  I  ran ; 
And  to  pull  the  many  roses 

My  idle  hands  began. 
The  white  and  crimson  roses, 

That  blossomed  all  a-row, 
Down  by  the  old  stone-terrace 

Where  most  I  loved  to  go. 

But,  weary  soon  of  such  pastime, 

I  flung  me  down  to  rest 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  elm, — 

My  mother  loved  it  best. 
And  I  watched  the  broad,  deep  blaze  of  light 

That  on  each  casement  shone, 
And  saw  the  golden  gleam  flashed  back 

From  every  pane,  save  one. 

It  fell  upon  the  honeysuckle, 

On  the  roses  in  their  bloom ; 
But  I  marvelled  why  the  light  was  shut 

Out  from  my  mother's  room. 
I  watched  till  the  gold-gleam  faded, 

And  the  long  shadows  lay 
Upon  the  old  gray  roof-tree. 

I  marked  it  all  that  day. 


ROSES  RED   AND    WHITE.  365 

Softly  the  twilight  descended, 

The  stars  came  out,  one  by  one, 
And  I  thought  no  more  of  the  gray  house, 

So  brightly  the  star-wreaths  shone. 
But  I  pondered  upon  the  lesson 

My  father  had  taught  to  me, 
Of  GOD  as  our  Maker  and  Saviour, 

The  Incarnate  Deity. 

Swift  steps  moved  over  the  greensward, 

Steps  that  were  moving  fast ; 
And  I  heard  the  murmur  of  voices, 

Speaking  low,  yet  speaking  fast. 
"  Where  hath  the  poor  child  wandered  ?  " 

The  passing  voices  said. 
"  For  her  father  waiteth  for  her ; 

Her  mother  lieth  dead." 

"  Dead !  "    Well  I  knew  the  meaning 

Of  that  bitter,  bitter  word, 
And  a  cry  of  anguish  rang  across 

The  green  and  flowery  sward. 
What  did  it  matter  then  to  me, 

The  comforting  words  they  said, 
When  I  stood  within  that  darkened  room, 

And  looked  on  my  mother,  dead ! 

O  little  one !  thou  hast  not  known 

As  yet  that  agony ; 
Father  and  mother  are  all  thine  own, 

GOD  hath  left  them  unto  thee. 
But  I?  a  father's  arms  alone 

Were  thrown  around  me  then, 
And  they  bore  me  away.     I  never  looked 

On  my  mother's  face  again ! 

Only  in  my  dreams  I  see  it, 

Fair  and  gentle,  sweet  and  mild ; 
Only  in  my  dreams  I  see  her 

Smiling  down  upon  her  child. 
Only  then  her  arms  are  twining, 

As  they  twined  around  me  of  yore ; 
But  I  wake  to  weep ;  such  dreaming 

Must  be  dreaming  evermore. 

The  year  was  in  its  noon-day, 
All  the  roses  were  in  bloom, 


366  KOSES   BED   AND    WHITE. 

When  they  laid  my  mother  down  to  rest 
Within  the  cold,  cold  tomb ; 

But  the  year  was  waning  to  its  night, 
Was  drawing  to  its  close, 

When  they  bore  my  father  away  from  me 
Unto  his  last  repose. 

Life  hath  brought  me  dreary  hours, 

But  the  dreariest  of  all 
Was  when  the  only  one  that  loved  me 

Was  lying  beneath  the  pall ; 
When  my  father,  tender  and  loving, 

Was  taken  away  from  me ; 
And  the  wide  world  lay  before  me, 

And  I  could  no  refuge  see. 

Life's  sorrow  came  upon  me  early, 

And  I  bore  ittas  I  might, 
All  alone,  with  none  to  soothe  me, 

None  to  show  the  blessed  light 
That  beyond  the  cloud  was  shining ; 

None  to  lighten  my  despair 
With  soft  speech  of  an  hereafter, 

Of  the  Saviour  waiting  there ! 

Ere  the  grass  was  growing  greenly 

Upon  that  rounded  sod, 
My  little  feet  the  tarry  deck 

Of  an  ocean-vessel  trod. 
I,  that  had  grown  amid  the  flowers, 

A  nature-loving  child, 
Heard  nought  but  the  sailor-boy's  carol, 

Saw  nought  but  the  waters  wild. 

Alas  for  my  home  in  the  valley ! 

For  the  roses  white  and  red ; 
For  the  old  stone-terrace  that  never 

Might  echo  to  my  tread ! 
They  had  passed  from  my  life  forever. 

Another's  own  to  be ; 
And  I  ?  the  vessel  that  bore  me 

Was  a  thousand  miles  at  sea ! 

Days  upon  days  glided  from  us, 
In  spite  of  the  lagging  breeze  : 

Days  upon  days  glided  from  us, 

Still  our  Sea-Bird  swept  the  seas. 


EOSES  RED  AND  WHITE.  367 

But  I  little  recked  of  Time's  passing, 

Pleased  and  content  was  I 
Could  I  listen  unto  some  sailor's  yarn 

And  watch  the  waves  go  by. 

Many  a  story  they  told  me, 

Most  marvellous   and  true; 
High  deeds  of  daring  done  upon 

The  ocean  waters  blue. 
But  most  I  loved  to  listen 

To  a  tale  they  often  told 
Of  a  gallant,  gallant  seaman, 

Of  my  sailor-uncle  Hold. 

How  once  he  lived  by  the  sea-shore,  — 

A  sea-shore  wild  and  rough ; 
Though  if  the  sun  were  shining 

It  was  pleasant  and  fair  enough. 
*But  a  storm  from  the  north  was  fearful, 

On  that  coast  it  seemed  such. 
E'en  the  landsman  knew  its  terror, 

The  sailor  dreaded  it  much. 

One  night,  when  darkness  was  over  all, 

A  tempest  in  its  glee 
Burst  over  the  rocky  headland, 

Sweeping  shoreward  from  the  sea ; 
Till  the  torn  and  hissing  waters 

Broke  shuddering  on  the  strand; 
All  the  sky  so  dense  and  black  the  while, 

You  knew  not  sea  from  land. 

Hark  to  the  boom  of  a  cannon 

Sounding  shoreward  from  the  sea ! 
A  minute-gun  from  yon  vessel, 

Drifting  on  the  rocks  to  lee,  — 
Drifting  on  the  rocks  to  leeward, 

Spurning  at  man's  control ; 
Yet  a  costly  freight  that  vessel  held,  — 

So  many  a  living  soul. 

A  costly  freight,  —  a  hundred  souls,  — 

Yet  who  shall  rescue  them  ? 
No  boat  could  live  in  such  a  sea; 

No  arm  those  waves  could  stem. 
But  still  the  boom  of  the  cannon 

Is  heard  across  the  sea, 


368  ROSES  RED   AND    WHITE. 

And  the  gallant  vessel  rushes  on 
The  rocky  shore  to  lee. 

No  boat  ?    What  rideth  the  waters 

As  a  hope  that  will  not  die, 
Bringing  cheer  to  the  weary  sailors 

As  safety  draweth  nigh? 
No  arm  ?    Yet  a  stripling  bendeth 

His  to  the  dripping  oar. 
And  the  life-boat  struggles  slowly 

The  foaming  billows  o'er. 

All  this  they  told  me,  and  further,  — 

How,  when  morning  dawned  at  last, 
The  ship  whose  fate  had  seemed  meted  out 

Was  anchored  safe  and  fast. 
Saved  was  the  storm-tossed  vessel, 

Saved,  a  hundred  souls,  all  told ; 
And  the  stripling  whose  daring  had  saved  them, 

Was  my  sailor-uncle  Bold.  « 

I  know  not  the  manner  of  it,  — 

Their  sea-phrases  puzzled  me ; 
But  it  was  no  common  danger, 

That  long  strife  with  the  sea ; 
And  mine  eyes  filled  fast,  and  my  heart  beat  loud 

With  an  eager  thrill  of  pride, 
When  next  I  stood  on  the  quarter-deck, 

And  that  brave  heart  by  my  side. 

Softly  I  laid  my  fingers  small 

Within  his  own  rough  hand, 
And  it  closed  over  mine  so  tenderly, 

And  he  looked  so  all  unmann'd. 
"  Darling !  "  he  whispered  over  me, 

And  he  said  it  o'er  and  o'er ; 
And  he  took  me  unto  his  good,  true  heart 

Then,  and  evermore. 

Days  upon  days  glided  from  us, 

As  a  dream  they  came  and  passed ; 
And  I  knew  by  the  glee  of  the  sailors, 

We  were  nearing  home  at  last. 
And  they  told  me  once,  —  they  had  wiled  me 

Away  from  my  uncle's  side,  — 
That  a  fair  girl  was  waiting  for  him : 

He  was  going  home  to  a  bride. 


ROSES   RED   AND    WHITE.  369 

A  morning  came  when  a  glory 

Seemed  resting  on  the  sea; 
When  the  sun  in  the  east  was  shining 

So  bright  and  goldenly; 
And  its  light  on  the  human  faces, 

That  smiled  down  on  me 
So  kind  and  warm  in  their  gladness, 

Was  beautiful  to  see. 

A  glad  man,  that  day,  was  my  Uncle  Rold, 

And  he  took  me  on  his  knee. 
"  Only  one  night,"  he  whispered, 

"  Only  one  night  of  sea ; 
And  my  darling  shall  live  with  her  uncle, 

Never  more  to  leave  his  side." 
And  there  came  such  a  soft  light  in  his  eyes ; 

He  was  thinking  of  his  bride ! 

Only  one  night  of  ocean ! 

I  was  dreaming  all  that  night 
Of  my  own  fair  home  in  the  valley, 

Of  the  roses  red  and  white ; 
And,  mingling  with  this  dreaming, 

A  vision  came  to  me, 
Of  a  gentle  maiden  waiting 

In  an  old  house  by  the  sea. 

My  dream  was  broken,  and  I  awoke 

From  those  visions  fair  and  sweet, 
To  hear,  'mid  the  roaring  of  the  sea, 

The  tramp  of  hurrying  feet. 
A  storm  had  burst  upon  us,  — 

As  the  lightning  it  had  come; 
And  our  Sea-Bird  lay  with  broken  wings, 

To  sink  in  the  sight  of  home ! 

We  had  sprung  a  leak,  —  it  was  gaining  fast,  — 

Man's  skill  was  all  in  vain. 
And  we  knew  that  our  gallant  Sea-bird 

Would  never  rise  again. 
Yet  calmly  the  sailors  manned  the  pumps, 

No  lagging  hand  was  there ; 
But  they  worked,  as  men  whose  doom  is  sealed, 

In  calmness  of  despair. 

They  had  taken  me  from  my  narrow  berth, 
To  a  sheltered  place  on  deck, 
24 


370  HOSES   RED   AND    WHITJS. 

And  I  sat,  half  wondering,  to  see 

Our  Sea-Bird  such  aVreck, 
When  an  arm  was  folded  round  me, 

And  I  lay  upon  the  breast 
Of  my  Uncle  Rold,  and  his  cold  lips 

Upon  my  brow  were  pressed. 

"  Darling,  I  never  dreamed  of  this 

When  they  gave  you  unto  me ; 
I  but  thought  of  the  joy  I  was  bearing 

To  my  home  beside  the  sea. 
A  joy  to  outlive  the  sorrow, 

A  child  to  be  all  mine  own ; 
But  GOD  hath  ordered  it  otherwise,  — 

His  holy  will  be  done !  " 

And  he  turned  away,  and  left  me ; 

He  had  other  work  to  do ; 
And  I  watched  him  as  he  moved  among 

The  worn  and  weary  crew. 
Watched  him,  with  weary  longing 

For  the  morn  that  would  not  come ; 
And  thinking  how  bitter  a  thing  it  was 

To  perish  in  sight  of  home  ! 

They  had  left  the  pumps,  they  had  lowered  the  boats, 

They  were  rowing  fast  to  lee ; 
And  I  sat  in  the  stern  with  my  head  bent  down 

Upon  my  uncle's  knee. 
I  felt  him  shudder,  I  heard  him  moan, 

I  knew  what  it  must  be ; 
But  I  did  not  speak ;  I  only  kissed 

The  hand  that  guarded  me. 

The  morning  dawned,  but  brought  no  hope  with  it; 

For  in  the  rear,  far  out  to  sea, 
We  saw  the  white  line  of  the  coming  squall  ; 

Vain  all  our  strength  must  be. 
Before  us,  some  three  miles,  the  lee-shore  frowned, 

Fierce  with  its  bristling  rock ; 
But  we  dared  not  hope  to  out-speed  the  gale,  — 

We  could  not  outlive  its  shock. 

Wearily  the  sailors  bent  to  their  oars, 

Sadly  they  looked  before ; 
For  they  knew  the  tempest  would  burst  o'er  them 

Long  ere  they  could  reach  the  shore. 


ROSES   RED   AND    WHITE.  371 

Close  in  my  uncle's  arms  I  lay, 

Weary,  and  faint,  and  chill ; 
But  the  weariness  folded  me  to  sleep, 

And  I  slept  and  dreamed  still. 

I  was  dreaming  of  skies  all  pure  and  bright, 

Where  never  a  cloud  could  be ; 
Of  summer  winds,  and  summer  flowers, 

But  never  of  the  sea. 
Was  that  the  breath  of  summer  winds? 

A  hissing  and  a  roar, 
From  the  startled  billows  torn  and  dashed 

Upon  the  groaning  shore  ? 

A  moment  —  and  the  tightened  grasp 

Around  my  little  form, 
The  water  dashing  o'er  us,  told  we  were 

At  the  mercy  of  the  storm. 
A  moment  —  and  the  boat  that  bore  us, 

Striking  some  hidden  rock, 
Was  sinking,  sinking  from  beneath  us, 

Shattered  by  the  shock. 

A  cry,  that  rang  o'er  the  pitiless  sea 

As  if  for  aid,  and  then 
A  prayer  of  "  God  have  mercy  on  us !  " 

A  cry  of  drowning  men. 
A  flash  across  the  darkness,  lighting  up 

The  skies  that  seemed  to  frown,  — 
One  look  upon  the  pale  face  close  to  mine, 

And  we  went  down  —  down  —  down. 


Once  more  I  breathed  the  sweet  breath  of  the  day, 

Once  more  I  looked  on  the  sun ; 
But  its  light  was  shining  through  honeysuckle ; 

The  day  had  but  begun. 
I  was  lying  on  a  white,  white  couch, 

And  roses,  white  and  red, 
Their  soft  bloom  meeting  mine  eyes,  were  strewed 

On  the  pillow  near  my  head. 


I  sought  to  rise,  but  I  had  no  strength ; 

So  I  lay  all  silently 
Watching  the  sun-rays  streaming  in ; 

How  bright  they  seemed  to  me ! 


372  ROSES   RED   AND    WHITE. 

Slowly  mine  eyes  turned  from  their  glory, 

Gazing  the  chamber  o'er, 
But  they  fell  on  no  familiar  things, 

Waking  memories  of  yore. 

Each  thing  was  strange  that  I  looked  upon, 

Save  the  roses  red  and  white. 
And  they?    I  thought  their  beauty  must  be 

A  vision  of  the  night. 
Slowly  I  lifted  my  wasted  hand 

To  touch  them ;  they  were  no  dream ; 
And  my  thin,  white  fingers  lingered  there, 

In  the  warmth  of  a  stray  sunbeam. 

Had  I  been  dreaming  a  fearful  dream? 

But  no !  I  heard  the  roar 
Of  the  mighty  sea,  its  strong  pulse  beating 

Upon  the  rock-bound  shore. 
And  in  at  the  open  window, 

On  the  sweet  breath  of  the  morn, 
The  sound  that  must  haunt  me  evermore  — 

The  moan  of  the  sea  —  was  borne. 

I  closed  mine  eyes  with  a  shudder ; 

All  the  horror  came  over  me 
Of  that  long,  long  strife  with  the  waters, 

Of  that  sinking  in  the  sea. 
I  thought  of  the  arms  that  had  held  me ; 

My  hands  grew  white  and  cold ; 
And  through  my  wan  lips,  all  quivering, 

Broke  a  wild  cry,  —  "  Uncle  Rold !  " 

"  Darling,"  a  low  voice  murmured, 

"  He  cannot  come  to  you ; 
The  dust  of  the  valley  is  lying 

On  that  heart  so  good  and  true. 
He  saved  your  life,  but  he  gave  his  own; 

Yet  not  all  pitiless  the  sea, 
Since  it  left  one  hour  of  life  to  him,  — 

One  hour,  but  all  to  me. 

"  Darling,  he  gave  you  unto  me 

To  be  my  very  own ; 
Something  to  keep  as  a  memory, 

To  love  when  he  was  gone, 
He  loved  you  well,"  —  the  sweet  lips  quivered, 

The  head  sank  down  by  my  side. 


HOSES   RED   AND    WHITE.  373 

I  drew  it  close.    I  knew  all  now ; 
She  would  have  been  his  bride ! 

She  had  been  watching  through  all  that  night. 

How  could  the  maiden  sleep, 
When  the  storm  was  abroad  on  the  ocean, 

And  he  upon  the  deep? 
She  had  watched  all  night,  till  the  morning, 

Till,  in  the  pale,  gray  light, 
Up  the  narrow  path  from  the  sea-shore, 

There  came  a  man  in  sight. 

A  man  who  staggered  blindly, 

Yet  kept  the  path  from  the  shore ; 
Whose  form  swayed  ever  to  and  fro ; 

Whose  arms  a  burden  bore. 
Could  her  loving  eyes  deceive  her? 

Could  it  be  other  than  him? 
Swiftly  the  true  heart  bore  her  on, 

Out  into  the  morning  dim. 

Swiftly  she  crossed  the  narrow  lawn, 

And  the  shape  fell  at  her  feet 
With  a  face  like  Death's.     O  GOD  !  O  GOD  I 

Had  they  parted  thus  to  meet? 
Her  cry  brought  help,  and  they  bore  us  in, 

My  Uncle  Hold  and  I. 
Their  care  brought  back  the  throb  to  my  heart; 

He  only  came  home  to  die.  • 

To  die  on  that  tender,  faithful  heart ; 

But  it  was  passing  sweet 
To  look  once  more  in  the  loving  eyes 

He  had  thought  no  more  to  meet. 
To  feel  the  clasp  of  that  little  hand; 

It  was  much  to  be  so  blest. 
But  life  was  fleeting ;  those  arms  beloved 

But  cradled  him  to  his  rest. 

Calmly,  patiently,  she  let  him  go, 

She  had  no  power  to  save ; 
Meekly  and  sadly,  a  broken  flower, 

She  followed  him  to  his  grave, 
Then  sought  her  silent  home  again, 

And  nursed  me  back  to  life  ; 
But  the  fever-spot  on  her  own  cheek  told 

Of  the  ceaseless  inward  strife. 


374  HOSES   EED   AND    WHITE. 

Slowly  the  spring  had  vanished, 

And  the  days  came,  long  and  sweet, 

"When  wandering  through  the  wild  woods  brought 
No  weariness  to  my  feet. 

I  was  strong  again ;  but  a  whisper, 
If  fraught  with  names  I  loved, 

Was  pain  to  my  spirit,  and  my  heart 

To  passionate  anguish  moved. 

But  I  woke  from  my  grief  o'er  the  past, 

To  a  grief  that  was  not  old ; 
For  I  saw  how  a  cheek  was  growing  pale, 

And  a  white  hand  icy-cold. 
I  saw  the  light  in  some  dark  eyes  shining 

Too  gloriously  for  earth, 
And  I  felt  the  coming  shadow  stealing 

Dark  on  our  quiet  hearth. 

Dearly  I  loved  the  dying, 

But  I  knew  that  she  must  go 
To  the  land  where  he  was  waiting,  — 

That  it  was  better  so. 
And  I  schooled  my  heart  to  patience 

That  I  might  not  give  her  pain ; 
And  I  gathered  her  roses  daily ; 

They  would  not  bloom  for  her  again. 

I  would  bring  them  to  her  pillow, 

Morning,  noon,  and  night; 
For  their  sweetness  gave  her  pleasure ; 

Their  beauty  was  delight. 
She  seemed  to  live  on  their  perfume, 

But  they  withered  in  her  hand. 
Alas,  she,  too,  was  fading, 

Passing  to  the  Better  Land. 

She  lingered  on  through  the  summer; 

Ere  the  autumn  she  was  gone, 
And  I,  in  that  old  house  by  the  sea, 

Was  left  to  live  alone,  — 
Alone  with  the  crowding  fancies, 

That  teemed  within  my  brain ; 
Alone  with  my  bitter  sorrow, 

Alone  with  its  gnawing  pain. 

Slowly  the  years  went  from  me, 
No  memories  to  them  cling ; 


HOSES   RED   AND    WHITE.  375 

And  I  grew  up  into  womanhood, 

A  quiet  little  thing. 
As  a  child,  I  had  known  no  children,  — 

I  was  older  than  my  years ; 
As  a  woman,  there  was  not  one  to  care 

For  my  smiling  or  my  tears. 

Yet  once  there  was  other  dreaming, 

A  passionate  dream  and  sweet; 
But  its  fair  and  golden  palace 

Was  soon  shattered  at  my  feet. 
It  rose,  as  if  built  by  magic, 

Stately,  and  grand,  and  fair ; 
But  it  fell,  —  the  ruin  lies  on  my  heart,  — 

As  a  castle  in  the  air. 

It  was  but  a  dream  of  loving, 

A  thought  that  I  was  beloved. 
Ere  my  heart  had  learned  all  its  glory, 

Its  gossamer  strength  was  proved, 
And  it  perished  in  an  hour. 

Only  my  heart  was  strong, 
And  its  veiling  folds  were  drawn  tight  and  close 

Over  that  ruin,  long. 

I  scarce  remember  how  we  met, 

Some  every-day  event, 
Nor  where  my  heart  first  burst  the  bonds 

That  its  outward  flow  had  pent. 
But  the  day  of  full  awakening 

Was  dark,  and  deadly,  and  cold ; 
And  my  soul  sunk  deep  in  the  bitter  flood 

Where  despair's  wild  waters  rolled. 

Well  I  remember  the  morning,  — 

A  morning  of  sweet  June ; 
When  gladness  seemed  radiant  on  all  things, 

And  all  with  my  heart  in  tune. 
He  came  to  me,  mournful  and  silent, 

A  shadow  upon  his  face, 
Flung  there  by  a  feeling  I  dreamed  not  of, 

And  knew  not  how  to  trace. 

Long  he  sat,  'neath  the  roses 

That  blossomed  overhead, 
Mournful,  and  pale,  and  silent, 

As  if  a  hope  were  dead. 


376  HOSES   RED   AND    WHITE. 

Then  he  spoke  of  his  love  for  another, 

But  her  father  said  him  nay; 
And  this  other  was  young  and  loving, 

And  beautiful  as  day ! 

But  I  was  never  beautiful,  — 

Quiet,  and  seeming  cold, 
He  looked  upon  the  outside  mould, 

And  thought  not  of  the  gold 
Deep  buried  beneath  that  surface  rough. 

Perchance  'twas  better  so. 
Had  he  known  how  the  heart  was  throbbing 

He  might  have  guessed  its  woe. 

But  he  looked  on  my  face ;  —  the  moment's  pain 

Might  well  have  been  written  there ; 
Yet  it  told  no  tale  of  the  hidden  love 

Crushed  in  its  own  despair. 
And  he  turned  away,  with  perhaps  a  thought 

That  some  olden  memory 
Had  burst  from  its  grave,  and  brought  to  me 

A  passing  agony. 

A  passing  pang,  —  it  could  be  no  more,  — 

And  he  lightly  turned  to  greet 
A  fairy  form  that  came  dancing  in 

On  small  and  fairy  feet. 
Why  did  my  fingers  tremble  so? 

What  made  mine  eyes  so  dim  ? 
But  I  smiled  when  I  met  her  soft  brown  eyes ; 

I  loved  her  for  loving  him, 

I  thought  "  he  shall  be  happy," 

And  I  did  it  as  I  planned ; 
Working  silently  and  secretly ; 

And  he  never  knew  whose  hand 
Had  shattered  all  the  barriers 

That  rose  athwart  his  path ; 
Had  given  him  his  fairy  bride 

And  soothed  her  father's  wrath. 


For  a  little  time  there  was  darkness, 
Where  shone  not  even  a  star; 

When  life  was  bitter  and  deadly, 
And  Heaven  seemed  very  far. 


HOSES   RED   AND    WHITE.  377 

But  the  shadow  passed ;   I  was  strong  again, 

And  my  days  went  by  the  same 
As  in  the  olden  quiet  time 

Before  the  wild  dream  came. 


Slowly  the  years  went  from  me ; 

I  know  not  how  they  went ; 
With  my  silent  life  and  its  duties 

I  had  made  myself  content. 
I  had  dreams,  but  they  scarcely  wandered, 

I  could  hold  them  in  my  hand. 
I  had  dreams  but  of  those  who  were  at  rest 

At  home  in  the  Better  Land ! 


I  had  wealth,  but  I  cared  not  for  it, 

Save  for  books  it  brought  to  me ; 
And  I  never  thought  of  wandering 

From  my  home  beside  the  sea. 
I  had  neighbors,  and  they  sought  me, 

But  we  were  not  closest  friends. 
Still  the  heart  must  cling  to  something; 

It  breaketh,  or  it  bends. 


And  I  cared  for  the  children ; 

Ever  they  came  to  me, 
And  my  silent  home  grew  cheerful 

Amid  their  noise  and  glee. 
I  taught  them  many  a  lesson 

Of  life's  sweet  charities, 
And  they  paid  me  back  in  golden  coin ; 

What  had  I  been  but  for  these? 


GOD  bless  the  little  children, 

For  the  joy  they  brought  to  me ; 
For  the  life  made  sweet  by  their  lovingness, 

The  heart  made  glad  by  their  glee ! 
The  earth  had  brought  sorrow  unto  me, 

Dark  were  its  teachings  all ; 
But  their  twining  fingers,  unconsciously, 

Had  lifted  the  heavy  pall. 

GOD  bless  the  little  children, 

And  love  them  evermore ! 
For  they  taught  me  life's  hardest  lesson, 

Not  doubting  to  adore. 


378  ROSES   RED   AND    WHITE. 

They  made  me  see  that  a  Father's  hand 
Had  been  with  me  all  the  way 

I  had  travelled  cfer ;  and  I  looked  beyond 
To  the  slowly  dawning  day. 

GOD  bless  the  little  children ! 

They  came  from  him  to  me, 
Bringing  peace  to  my  weary  spirit 

And  hope  for  eternity. 
I  have  lived  out  threescore  years  and  ten, 

But  my  heart  hath  not  grown  old ; 
And  I  shall  love  the  little  children 

Till  my  life  is  a  tale  that's  told. 


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